LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


Ptf 

*33/ 

H 


A  STUDY  OF 

PROSE  FICTION 


BY 
BLISS  PERRY 

Professor  of  English  Literature  in  Harvard  University 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  STUDY  OF  POETRY,"  "WALT  WHITMAN," 
"THE  AMERICAN  MIND,"  ETC. 


Revised  Edition 


BOSTON      NEW  YORK      CHICAGO      SAN  FRANCISCO 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

;£bc  ftitoewfte  pretf  CambciOge 


COPYRIGHT,  I9O2  AND  IQ20,  BY  BLISS  FKRRT 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


CAMBRtDGB  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U  .  S  .  A 


PREFACE 

THE  aim  of  this  book  is  to  discuss  the  out- 
lines of  the  art  of  prose  fiction.  It  was  first 
published  in  1902,  and  has  been  reprinted 
so  often  that  I  have  no  excuse  for  any  errors 
of  fact  which  it  may  still  contain.  In  the 
present  edition  I  have  altered  a  few  passages 
in  the  text,  and  made  considerable  additions 
to  the  bibliography.  I  had  hoped  to  add  a 
chapter  on  Dialogue  in  Fiction,  but  the 
chapter  is  still  unwritten. 

It  happened  that  the  author  wrote  fiction, 
after  a  fashion,  before  attempting  to  lecture 
upon  it,  and  he  is  now  conscious  that  the 
academic  point  of  view  has  in  turn  been 
modified  by  the  impressions  gained  during 
his  editorship  of  "  The  Atlantic  Monthly." 
Whether  the  professional  examination  of 
many  thousands  of  manuscript  stories  is  cal- 
culated to  exalt  one's  standards  of  the  art  of 


vi  PREFACE 

fiction  may  possibly  be  questioned.  But  this 
editorial  experience,  supplementing  the  other 
methods  of  approach  to  the  subject,  may  be 
thought  to  contribute  something  of  practical 
value  to  the  present  study  of  the  novelist's 
work.  It  is  as  if  an  enthusiast  for  art,  after 
serving  first  as  painter's  apprentice  and  then 
as  lecturer  on  painting,  had  been  forced  to 
act  as  hanging  committee  for  an  exhibition, 
and  now,  with  a  zeal  for  his  subject  which 
survives  every  disillusionment,  were  to  mount 
a  chair  in  the  picture  gallery  and  preach  to 
all  comers !  For  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that 
there  is  more  or  less  sermonizing  in  this 
book.  The  homiletic  habit  lurks  deep  in 
the  New  Englander  as  in  the  Scotchman,  and 
many  a  Yankee  who  can  claim  few  other 
points  of  resemblance  to  Robert  Louis  Ste- 
venson is  like  him  at  least  in  this,  that  he 
"would  rise  from  the  dead  to  preach." 

It  should  be  stated  distinctly  that  the  pre- 
sent volume  makes  no  attempt  to  trace  the 
history  of  the  English  novel.  That  task  has 
been  adequately  performed  by  several  excel- 


PREFACE  vii 

lent  handbooks,  which  are  easily  accessible. 
Most  of  my  illustrations  of  the  various  aspects 
of  the  art  in  question  are  drawn,  however, 
from  English  and  American  stories.  While 
I  have  not  overlooked,  I  trust,  the  work  of 
the  more  significant  contemporary  writers,  I 
have  made  no  attempt  to  decorate  these 
pages  with  references  to  the  "  novel  of  the 
year."  On  the  contrary,  wherever  an  allu- 
sion to  the  writings  of  masters  like  Scott  and 
Thackeray  and  Hawthorne  would  serve  the 
purpose,  I  have  given  myself  the  pleasure  of 
such  illustration,  knowing  that  their  books 
will  continue  to  be  read  long  after  the  novels 
of  the  year  have  faded  out  of  memory. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  this  discussion  of 
the  pleasant  art  of  story- writing  will  not 
weigh  too  heavily  upon  the  reader's  con- 
science. If  he  likes,  he  may  avoid  the  Ap- 
pendix. But  the  "  painful  "  reader,  who  is 
after  all  the  pride  of  the  classroom  and  the  lit" 
erary  club,  and  who  deserves  one  of  the  best 
seats  by  the  family  library-table,  will,  I  hope, 
find  in  the  Appendix  much  that  will  prove 


via  PREFACE 

interesting  and  useful.  The  review  questions 
upon  Scott's  "Ivanhoe"  are  reprinted  there 
with  the  courteous  permission  of  Messrs.  Long- 
mans, Green  &  Company,  the  publishers  of 
my  annotated  edition  of  that  novel. 

BLISS  PERRY. 
CAMBRIDGE,  1920. 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  THE  STUDY  OF  FICTION       ....  1 

II.  PROSE  FICTION  AND  POETRY   ...  28 

III.  FICTION  AND  THE  DRAMA           ...  48 

IV.  FICTION  AND  SCIENCE       ....  73 
V.  THE  CHARACTERS 94 

VI.  THE  PLOT 129 

VII.  THE  SETTING 154 

VIII.  THE  FICTION- WRITER       ....  177 

IX.  REALISM 217 

X.  ROMANTICISM 258 

XI.  THE  QUESTION  OF  FORM     ....  284 

XII.  THE  SHORT  STORY   .         .        .        .        .  300 

XIII.  PRESENT  TENDENCIES  OF  AMERICAN  FICTION  335 
APPENDIX  :    Suggestions  for   Study.  —  Bibliography. 
—  Topics  for  Study.  —  Original  Work  in  Con- 
struction. —  Practice  in  Analysis.  —  Review 

Questions 361 

INDEX  399 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE      .        .        .  Frontispiece 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  ....  58 

RUDYARD  KIPLING *•.  134 

GEORGE  ELIOT 150 

CHARLES  DICKENS 200 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 260 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON 294 

EDGAR  ALLAN  FOE ..338 


A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    STUDY    OF   FICTION 

"  There  are  few  ways  in  which  people  can  be  better  employed 
than  in  reading  a  good  novel.  (I  do  not  say  that  they  should 
do  nothing  else.)  "  BENJAMIN  JOWETT,  Life  and  Letters. 

IN   beginning   any  study,  it  is 

„    ,  ,/   .  J  Nature  of  the 

well  to  take  a  preliminary  survey  problems  in- 
of  the  field,  and  to  note  the  gen- 
eral character  of  the  questions  that  are  likely 
to  arise  as  one  advances.     When  the  chosen 
field  of  study  is  one  of  the  arts,  it  is  obvious 
that  the  student's  curiosity  may  be  aroused 
by  various  aspects  of  the  art  under  consider- 
ation.    He  may  find  himself  interested  pri- 
marily in  the  artist,  or  chiefly  attracted  by  the 
work  of  art  itself,  or  concerned  with  the  at 
titude  of  the  public  which  takes  pleasure  in 
that  particular  form  of  art.     In  the  study  of 
prose  fiction,  for  instance,  one  person  may 


2  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

discover  that  his  chief  curiosity  is  about  cer- 
tain novelists  who  have  been  eminent  practi- 
tioners in  their  profession.  Another  person 
may  care  little  for  the  personal  traits  of  writ- 
ers of  fiction,  but  be  greatly  interested  in 
novels ;  and  a  third  may  find  much  to  reward 
his  endeavor  in  noting  the  various  character- 
istics of  the  fiction-reading  public.  The  gen- 
eral nature  of  the  problems  arising  in  the 
study  of  fiction  is  thus  indicated,  sufficiently 
for  our  present  purpose,  in  saying  that  they 
deal  with  literary  artists,  with  specific  works 
of  art,  and  with  the  public,  great  or  small, 
to  which  the  art  of  fiction  makes  a  particular 
appeal. 

It  confers  a  certain  dignity  upon 

The  universal     ,  .  J      r 

appetite  for  the  study  ot  iiction  to  remember 
how  universal  is  the  human  appe- 
tite for  fiction  of  some  sort.  In  one  of  the 
most  delightful  of  Thackeray's  "  Roundabout 
Papers,"  "  On  a  Lazy  Idle  Boy  "  who  leaned 
on  the  parapet  of  the  old  bridge  at  Chur, 
quite  lost  in  a  novel,  Thackeray  comments 
upon  "  the  appetite  for  novels  extending  to 
the  end  of  the  world  ;  far  away  in  the  frozen 
deep,  the  sailors  reading  them  to  one  another 
during  the  endless  night;  far  away  under 


THE  STUDY  OF  FICTION  3 

the  Syrian  stars,  the  solemn  sheikhs  and  eld- 
ers hearkening  to  the  poet  as  he  recites  his 
tales ;  far  away  in  the  Indian  camps,  where 

the  soldiers  listen  to 's  tales  or 's, 

after  the  hot  day's  march  ;  far  away  in  little 
Chur  yonder,  where  the  lazy  boy  pores  over 
the  fond  volume,  and  drinks  it  in  with  all  his 
eyes ;  —  the  demand  being  what  we  know  it 
is,  the  merchant  must  supply  it,  as  he  will 
supply  saddles  and  pale  ale  for  Bombay  or 
Calcutta."  The  universality  of  the  liking 
for  fiction  is  equaled  only  by  the  variety  of 
tastes  that  are  gratified  by  fiction  reading. 
Some  of  the  most  intellectual  men  have  con- 
fessed their  preference  for  the  most  unintel- 
lectual  stories,  and  very  ignorant  and  stupid 
people  are  constantly  —  and  in  a  most  praise- 
worthy fashion  !  —  endeavoring  to  assimilate 
the  lofty  thought  and  profound  emotion  with 
which  the  great  masterpieces  of  fiction  are 
charged.  Tastes  are  altered  as  we  pass  from 
youth  to  middle  age  and  old  age ;  they 
change  with  every  vital  experience ;  they 
grow  delicate  or  coarse  in  accordance  with 
the  meat  upon  which  they  are  fed.  But  the 
desire  for  "  the  story  "  outlasts  childhood  and 
savagery.  It  is  a  part  of  the  spiritual  hun« 


f  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

ger  of  the  most  Highly  developed  individuals 
and  races ;  and  it  is  impossible  to  foresee  the 
time  when  fiction  shall  cease  to  be  an  impor- 
tant part  of  the  world's  literary  production. 
"  The  demand  being  what  we  know  it  is,  the 
merchant  must  supply  it." 
variety  of  ^°*  onty  *s  ^s  desire  for  fiction 

action* 1<>r  an  aPPetite  common  to  humankind, 
reading.  |3ut  it  is  also  to  be  noted  that  the 
particular  motives  which  lead  persons  to  read 
books  of  fiction  are  strangely  varied.  Many 
people  like  to  read  novels  having  to  do  with 
subjects  in  which  they  already  have  some 
special  interest.  As  boys  with  a  turn  for 
history  will  easily  learn  to  read  Scott,  or 
a  scientifically  minded  youngster  will  take 
naturally  to  Jules  Verne,  so  an  adult's  fond- 
ness for  adventure,  travel,  the  study  of 
manners,  for  sociology,  theology,  or  ethics 
will  often  prescribe  the  sort  of  novels  he  will 
read.  There  are  other  people  who  select 
stories  that  will  carry  them  as  far  as  possible 
from  their  ordinary  pursuits  and  habits  of 
thought.  Fiction  of  this  character,  chosen 
for  its  power  to  afford  distraction  or  even 
dissipation  to  an  overwrought  mind,  unques- 
tionably serves  a  useful  purpose,  though  it 


a 

need  scarcely  be  said  that  an  exclusive  reli- 
ance upon  trivial  and  sensational  stories  as 
furnishing  mental  relaxation  is  an  indication 
of  poverty  of  intellectual  resources.  From 
the  point  of  view  of  the  boy  who  sells  novels 
on  the  train,  "a  good  book"  is  the  book 
that  most  easily  absorbs  the  attention  of  the 
traveler,  and  there  is  much  to  be  said  for 
the  train-boy's  standard  of  criticism.  Again, 
many  of  our  choices,  in  the  selection  of  fic- 
tion, turn  upon  the  more  or  less  unconscious 
desire  to  enlarge  the  range  of  our  experience. 
Like  Pomona  in  "  Rudder  Grange,"  we  can 
first  wash  the  dishes  and  then  follow  the 
adventures  of  the  English  aristocracy ;  we 
can  journey  to  the  California  of  1849  with 
Bret  Harte,  to  a  hill  camp  in  India  with 
Mr.  Kipling,  to  Paris  or  the  French  provinces 
with  Balzac.  We  can  thus  live  vicariously 
the  sort  of  life  we  might  have  lived  if  we 
had  been  differently  circumstanced.  We 
seek  in  novels  a  compensation  for  the  dullness 
and  monotony  of  actual  life,  or  contrariwise, 
finding  actuality  too  strenuous  and  stimulat- 
ing, we  take  refuge  in  the  quiet  sanctuary 
opened  to  us  by  art.  I  recall  a  mining  ex- 
pert who  had  just  come  East,  after  a  horse- 


6  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTiON 

back  journey  of  several  thousand  miles 
through  the  most  inaccessible  and  dangerous 
mining  camps  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  He 
wanted  something  to  read,  and  his  friend,  a 
professor  of  chemistry,  whose  life  was  passed 
in  his  laboratory  and  lodgings,  recommended 
to  him  a  thrilling  tale  by  Ouida,  in  which 
he  himself  had  been  reveling.  But  the 
mining  expert  declared  the  book  too  exciting, 
and  settled  down  for  a  whole  day's  tranquil 
happiness  with  Mrs.  GaskelPs  "  Cranford  "  ! 
Smallest  of  all  the  classes  of  fiction  readers, 
and  yet  the  most  thoroughly  appreciative  of 
excellence,  is  that  group  who  approach  a 
novel  without  any  preoccupation,  who  ask 
only  that  it  shall  be  a  beautiful  and  noble 
work  of  art.  Guy  de  Maupassant  has  ex- 
pressed this  thought  in  a  frequently  quoted 
passage  from  the  preface  to  "  Pierre  et  Jean." 
Yet  it  can  scarcely  be  read  too  often.  "  The 
public  is  composed  of  numerous  groups  who 
say  to  us  [novelists]  :  '  Console  me,  amuse 
me,  —  make  me  sad,  — make  me  sentimental, 
—  make  me  dream,  —  make  me  laugh,  — 
make  me  tremble,  —  make  me  weep,  —  make 
me  think.'  But  there  are  some  chosen  spir- 
its who  demand  of  the  artist :  '  Make  for 


THE  STUDY  OF  FICTION  7 

me  something  fine,  in  the  form  which  suits 
you  best,  following  your  own  temperament.' ' 
Remembering  this  infinite  vari- 

•         •i  •  i          p   Dogmatism 

ety  of  motive  in  choosing  works  of  to  be 
fiction,  it  becomes  easier  to  avoid 
dogmatism.  It  is  quite  impossible  to  draw 
up  a  list  of  "  the  best  novels"  for  any  par- 
ticular person.  The  variations  in  human 
nature  and  aesthetic  discipline  are  too  great. 
And  yet  criticism  has  a  function  here  which 
should  not  be  overlooked.  It  should  be  able 
to  pronounce  upon  the  objective  qualities  of 
any  book  :  to  say  what  it  contains,  and  to 
pass  judgment  upon  the  excellence  of  the 
form  in  which  those  contents  are  clothed. 
When  we  repeat  the  old  maxim,  "  De  gustibua 
non  disputandum  est,"  we  should  not  stretch 
the  maxim  beyond  the  very  obvious  truth 
which  it  expresses.  Tastes  are  purely  sub- 
jective matters,  and  arguments  about  them, 
though  interesting  enough,  are  futile  except 
as  evidences  of  personal  temperament  and 
training.  But  the  objects  of  taste,  neverthe- 
less, have  certain  positive  qualities  which  may 
profitably  be  analyzed  and  discussed.  One 
reader  may  prefer  Trollope's  "  Framley  Par- 
sonage "  to  Hawthorne's  "  Scarlet  Letter/' 


8  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

and  another  reader's  preference  be  precisely 
the  reverse.  It  may  be  useless  to  discuss 
these  preferences,  but  surely  criticism  can 
pronounce  upon  the  characteristics  of  the  two 
books.  It  can  show  their  radical  differ- 
ence in  structure  and  style.  It  can  point  out 
the  excellences  and  limitations  of  each  of 
the  two  stories.  Discussions  of  this  sort  are 
often  illuminating  and  valuable ;  they  are 
not  to  be  dismissed  as  the  expression  of  mere 
personal  whim.  A  man  may  prefer  chocolate 
to  coffee  as  his  breakfast  beverage  ;  he  knows 
which  he  likes  best,  and  it  may  not  be  worth 
while  to  dispute  with  him  about  his  taste. 
But  his  physician,  knowing  the  chemical  pro- 
perties of  the  two  beverages  and  their  rela- 
tive effect  upon  the  patient's  digestive  sys- 
tem, can  probably  tell  him  which  drink  is 
the  more  nourishing  or  stimulating  for  him. 
The  physician's  explanation  of  the  positive 
qualities  of  chocolate  and  coffee  may  be  com- 
pared to  the  judgment  of  a  competent  critic 
upon  the  constituent  elements  of  a  book. 
After  the  physician  has  delivered  his  opinion, 
it  is  still  possible  for  his  patient  to  say,  "  But 
I  like  coffee  best  and  shall  continue  to  drink 
it;"  and  after  the  critics  have  declared  a 


THE  STUDY  OF  FICTION  9 

book  to  be  commonplace  or  degrading  it  may 
be  read  even  more  than  before.  If  the  phy- 
sician and  the  critic  are  blessed  with  a  phi- 
losophical disposition  they  will  now  shrug 
their  shoulders  and  murmur,  "  De  gustibus 
non  disputandum  est."  They  have  done 
their  part,  and  further  discussion  is  useless. 

We  touch  here  upon  another  of  The  study 
the  fundamental  differences  be- 
tween  fiction  readers.  There  are 
lovers  of  all  the  arts  who  wish  to  "* 
keep  their  enjoyment  of  a  beautiful  object 
quite  separate  from  an  analysis  of  the  ele- 
ments that  enter  into  that  enjoyment,  who 
prefer  to  be  ignorant  of  the  technical  means 
by  which  the  pleasurable  end  is  secured. 
There  are  connoisseurs  of  music  and  painting 
who  profess  to  be  guided  by  their  personal 
impressions  of  the  sonata  or  the  landscape 
piece,  without  reference  to  any  knowledge  of 
the  mathematics  of  music  or  of  the  laws  of 
perspective,  A  good  deal  may  be  said  for 
this  happy  impressionistic  fashion  of  gather- 
ing pleasure,  and  it  has  no  stouter  adherents 
than  among  novel  readers.  A  very  large 
proportion  of  the  readers  of  a  story  take  no 
interest  whatever  in  the  technical  side  of  the 


10  A   STUDY  OF  PROSE   FICTION 

novelist's  craft ;  they  are  interested  simply 
in  the  results.  They  may  possibly  listen 
while  Stevenson  or  Mr.  Henry  James  dis- 
courses upon  the  difficulties  and  triumphs  of 
the  novelist's  art,  but  they  are  chiefly  con- 
cerned with  the  practical  quest  for  another 
good  story.  The  Anglo-Saxon,  particularly, 
is  not  inclined  to  treat  aesthetic  questions 
with  much  concern.  He  doubts  whether  the 
serious  amateur  study  of  an  art  increases 
one's  enjoyment  of  that  art.  It  is  precisely 
here  that  this  book  may  part  company  with 
some  readers  who  have  cared  to  follow  its 
opening  pages. 

For  our  discussion  will  proceed  upon  the 
tacit  assumption  that  the  study  of  fiction 
does  increase  one's  enjoyment  of  it ;  that 
as  the  traveler  who  has  studied  architec- 
ture most  carefully  will  get  the  most  plea- 
sure out  of  a  cathedral,  so  the  thorough 
student  of  literary  art  will  receive  most  en- 
joyment from  the  masterpieces  which  that 
art  has  produced.  Upon  the  practical  ap- 
plication of  this  theory  of  the  relation  of 
technical  knowledge  to  enjoyment,  some  com- 
mon sense  must  of  course  be  exercised.  The 
novel  which  survives  the  test  of  searching 


THE  STUDY  OF  FICTION  11 

analysis,  of  classroom  dissection,  —  if  you 
like,  —  and  gives  any  pleasure  at  the  last, 
must  be  a  good  novel  to  begin  with.  If  the 
doll  is  stuffed  with  sawdust,  it  is  better  not 
to  poke  into  its  insides.  But  if  the  novel  be 
the  work  of  a  master  —  if  it  be  "  Henry  Es- 
mond "  or  "  Adam  Bede  "  or  "  Ivanhoe  "  — 
there  need  be  no  fear  of  lessening  the  stu- 
dent's pleasure.  He  will  soon  learn  to  dis- 
cover the  conventional  tricks,  the  common- 
place devices  of  the  hack-writer ;  the  books 
of  the  great  writers  will  seem  no  whit  less 
wonderful  than  before.  Knowledge  and 
feeling  must  indeed  be  kept  in  their  due  re- 
lations. To  know  is  good.  To  feel  is  bet- 
ter, when  it  is  a  question  of  appropriating 
the  form  and  meaning  of  a  work  of  art. 
Analysis  must  be  subordinated  to  synthesis ; 
the  details  must  be  forgotten  in  the  cumula- 
tive impression  given  by  the  work  as  a  whole. 
Yet  the  synthetic,  comprehensive,  sympa- 
thetic view  of  a  masterpiece  of  fiction  is  not 
so  likely  to  reveal  itself  to  the  casual  reader 
as  it  is  to  the  careful  student  of  the  means 
by  which  the  supreme  ends  of  literature  are 
attained. 


12  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

What  method  of  fiction  study  is 

Methods  .         .  • 

oi  fiction        it  wisest  to  follow?    In  school  and 


college,  much  will  depend  upon  the 
size  and  proficiency  of  the  classes,  the  ex- 
tent to  which  the  lecture  system  is  adopted, 
the  library  facilities,  the  temperament  and 
the  training  of  the  individual  teacher.  The 
independent  student,  or  the  member  of  a 
reading  circle  or  club,  must  be  governed 
more  or  less  by  special  circumstances.  And 
yet  there  are  certain  general  modes  of  study 
between  which  a  choice  should  be  made  at 
the  outset. 

For  instance,  the  English  novel 

may  be  treated  historically.  Its 
origins  and  the  main  tendencies  of  its  de- 

O 

velopment  are  not  difficult  to  trace.  One 
may  plan  a  course  of  fiction  reading  which 
shall  follow  the  sequence  of  history.  He 
will  find  excellent  handbooks  to  guide  him. 
The  advantages  of  following  the  historical 
method  in  studying  any  phase  of  a  national 
literature  are  too  obvious  to  be  denied,  and 
yet,  as  far  as  fiction  is  concerned,  this 
method  is  not  without  its  drawbacks.  Very 
few  libraries  contain  much  material  of  an 
earlier  date  than  the  middle  of  the  eight/- 


THE  STUDY  OF  FICTION  13 

eenth  century,  or  represent  more  than  a 
handful  of  novelists  from  that  time  to  the 
generation  of  Scott.  The  minor  fiction  of 
any  epoch  is  often  more  truly  representative 
than  the  work  of  its  greater  names.  But 
even  were  the  material  at  hand,  the  tempta- 
tion in  dealing  with  half  forgotten  or  wholly 
forgotten  authors  is  to  content  one's  self  with 
secondhand  opinions  about  them,  and  it  is 
precisely  this  indolent  fashion  of  passing 
along  a  received  opinion  which  has  done 
much  to  bring  the  study  of  English  litera- 
ture into  disrepute.  The  reader  must  get 
the  book  into  his  hand  if  he  is  to  receive 
much  benefit  from  the  opinion  of  the  critic 
or  historian.  Of  course  every  student  of 
English  fiction  ought  to  know  something  of 
the  lines  of  its  progress  in  the  past  —  say 
as  much  as  the  little  books  of  Professor 
Raleigh l  or  Professor  Cross 2  will  help  him 
to  acquire  —  but  it  is  doubtful  whether  any- 
thing more  than  the  mastery  of  such  a  gen- 
eral sketch  can  successfully  be  attempted 

1  The  English  Novel.  By  Walter  Raleigh.  New  York: 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  1894. 

a  The  Development  of  the  English  Novel.  By  Wilbur  I* 
Cross.  New  York  :  The  Macinillan  Company,  1899. 


14  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

under  ordinary  conditions.  In  the  case  of 
advanced  students  who  have  proper  library 
facilities,  the  investigation  of  the  historical 
development  of  fiction  is  too  interesting  to 
be  likely  to  be  neglected. 
criticism  Again,  the  criticism  of  contem- 

?orSem"  porary  fiction  has  been  found  to 
fiction.  kg  attractive  and  stimulating,  both 
in  the  academic  class-room  and  the  literary 
club.  Such  a  course  of  study  traverses  the 
immense  field  of  latter-day  fiction,  and  se- 
lects for  analysis  and  judgment  striking  ex- 
amples of  this  and  that  literary  tendency. 
From  the  standpoint  of  pedagogy,  much 
may  be  said  for  this  method.  It  requires 
little  or  no  special  preparation  on  the  part 
of  the  student ;  he  may  be  assumed  to  have 
a  certain  interest  in  the  book  of  the  hour. 
It  puts  the  teacher  on  a  level  with  the  class, 
forcing  him  to  see  more  truly  and  to  ex- 
press himself  more  clearly  than  they,  upon 
books  that  have  not  yet  won  a  permanent 
place  in  literature,  and  consequently  have  not 
become  the  object  of  conventional  and  hack- 
neyed criticism.  Nevertheless  the  method 
has  its  dangers.  It  may  tempt  the  teacher 
to  popularize  in  the  bad  sense,  to  try  to  say 


THE  STUDY  OF  FICTION  16 

clever  things  about  the  novel  which  happens 
to  be  the  latest  fashion,  to  recognize,  in 
making  a  choice  among  current  fiction,  the 
market  valuation  and  thus  to  impress  the 
market-value  standard  upon  the  very  per- 
sons who  most  need  to  be  taught  the  falli- 
bility of  that  standard.  It  certainly  tempts 
the  student  to  criticise  —  that  is,  to  perform 
the  most  delicate  of  mental  operations  —  be- 
fore he  is  in  possession  of  any  canons  of 
criticism.  It  is  always  easy  to  mistake  liter- 
ary gossip  for  literary  culture,  and  a  course 
of  reading  which  gives  prominence  to  con- 
temporary books  and  living  authors  is  likely 
to  result  in  a  loss  of  true  literary  perspec- 
tive. Good  style  did  not  begin  with  Steven- 
son, and  good  plots  are  much  older  than  Dr. 
Conan  Doyle. 

While  every  method  has  no  doubt  The  stndy 
its  own  advantages  and  disadvan-  ^"nasaii 
tages,  the   method   least  open   to  flrt 
objection  is  that  which,  assuming  that  prose 
fiction  is  an  art,  devotes  itself  to  the  exposi- 
tion of  the  principles  of  that  art.     It  takes 
for  granted  that  there  is  a  "  body  of  doc- 
trine "   concerning  fiction,  as  there  is  con- 
cerning painting  or  architecture  or  music, 


16  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

and  that  the  artistic  principles  involved  are 
no  more  incapable  of  formulation  than  are 
the  laws  of  the  art  of  poetry,  as  expressed  in 
treatises  upon  Poetics  from  Aristotle's  day  to 
our  own.  They  are  indeed  largely  the  same 
principles,  as  might  be  expected  in  the  case 
of  two  sister  arts.  A  student  cannot  begin 
the  study  of  prose  fiction  more  profitably 
than  by  endeavoring  to  grasp  the  relations 
between  this  art  and  the  art  of  narrative  po- 
etry. Quite  aside  from  the  task  of  tracing 
historically  the  process  by  which  the  prose 
romance  grew  out  of  the  epic,  there  are  rich 
fields  for  investigation  in  connection  with 
such  topics  as  the  material  common  to  the 
two  arts,  the  qualities  shared  by  the  novelist 
and  poet,  and  the  similarity  of  much  of  their 
craftsmanship  in  the  sphere  of  formal  expres- 
sion. This  suggests  a  study  of  their  differ- 
ences in  the  selection  of  material,  their  vary- 
ing attitude  toward  their  material,  and  the 
diverging  requirements  of  effective  expres 
sion  in  the  two  media  of  prose  and  verse. 
Then  the  affiliations  of  fiction  with  the  drama 
must  be  made  clear,  through  a  study  of 
such  questions  as  the  general  similarity  in 
construction  of  the  novel  and  the  play,  and 


THE  STUDY  OF  FICTION  17 

the  advantages  and  disadvantages  of  sub- 
stituting the  novelist's  indirect  methods  of 
narration  and  description  for  the  direct  re- 
presentation of  action  by  means  of  the  stage. 
Here  the  student  may  work  out,  in  a  com- 
paratively new  territory,  the  familiar  princi- 
ple of  Lessing,  and  assure  himself  that  the 
real  field  of  the  novelist  is  forever  separated 
from  that  of  the  dramatist  by  the  nature  of 
the  artistic  media  which  the  two  men  em- 
ploy. The  student  may  well  be  asked,  also, 
to  estimate  the  bearing  upon  fiction  of  the 
modern  scientific  movement,  remembering 
Lanier's  remark  about  the  novel  being  the 
meeting  ground  of  poetry  and  science,  and 
endeavoring  to  ascertain  whether  upon  the 
whole  fiction  has  gained  or  lost  by  its  contact 
with  the  scientific  spirit.  After  such  a  clear- 
ing of  the  ground  as  has  been  suggested,  it 
is  natural  to  pass  to  a  detailed  study  of  the 
content  of  fiction,  a  study,  that  is,  of  charac- 
ter, plot,  and  setting,  in  themselves  and  as 
interrelated.  Selecting  for  classroom  mate- 
rial some  novels  that  have  stood  the  test  of 
time,  methods  of  character  delineation  must 
be  observed ;  stationary  and  developing  char- 
acters compared;  the  relation  of  main  and 


18  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

subordinate  characters  noted.  The  nature 
of  tragic  and  comic  collisions  must  be  ana- 
lyzed ;  the  infinitely  varied  ways  of  tangling 
and  untangling  the  skein  of  plot  reduced  to 
some  classification  that  can  be  grasped  by 
the  student.  The  circumstances  or  events 
enveloping  the  action  of  the  story  —  whether 
it  be  set  in  some  focal  point  of  history  or 
merely  keyed  to  a  quiet  landscape  —  must 
be  accurately  perceived.  Setting  and  plot 
and  character,  whether  analyzed  separately 
or  grasped  in  their  artistic  relations  to  one 
another,  must  further  be  discussed  in  con- 
nection with  the  personality  of  the  fiction- 
writer.  Yet  pupils  should  be  taught  to  look 
for  the  mark  of  personality,  not  in  gossip 
about  a  novelist's  hour  of  rising  and  favorite 
breakfast  and  favorite  books,  but  rather  in 
connection  with  the  creative  processes  upon 
which  the  stamp  of  personality  is  really  set. 
The  outward  facts  of  an  author's  life,  the 
traits  of  his  character,  the  history  of  his 
opinions  are  significant  to  us  only  in  so 
far  as  they  have  moulded  liis  imagination. 
Finally,  we  must  study  the  way  in  which 
differences  in  the  nature  of  material  and  dif- 
ferences in  personality  have  resulted  in  the 


THE  STUDY  OF  FICTION  19 

development  of  the  varying  forms  of  fiction. 
These  forms  are  capable  of  infinite  modifica- 
tion. Each  writer's  thoughts,  dreams,  con- 
victions, must  be  put  into  words.  His  mas- 
tery of  expression  is  the  final  element  that 
determines  his  rank  as  an  artist,  and  there 
is  thus  suggested  to  the  student  an  endlessly 
curious  investigation  of  matters  of  technique 
and  style. 

After  some  such  equipment  as  is  here 
briefly  indicated,  the  student  may  profitably 
pass  to  the  criticism  of  contemporary  au- 
thors, if  he  pleases,  or  to  some  phase  of  the 
history  of  the  novel.  No  one  need  depre- 
ciate either  of  those  methods  of  study,  but 
nevertheless  the  most  important  thing  to  be 
learned  about  fiction  at  the  outset  is  the 
knowledge  of  what  fiction  normally  is;  a 
sense  of  what  it  can  do  and  what  it  cannot 
do  ;  a  recognition  of  the  fact  that  in  the 
most  insignificant  short  story  may  be  seen 
the  play  of  laws  as  old  as  art  itself;  that 
Aristotle  and  Lessing,  in  short,  wrote  with 
one  eye  on  Mr.  Kipling  and  Mr.  Hardy. 

As  in  the  case  of  every  other 
fine  art,  the  student  of  prose  fie-  ana  form 
tion   finds   himself  occupied  with 


20  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

questions  concerning  content  and  form,  and 
their  relations  to  each  other.  Back  of  every 
art  product  there  is  a  conception,  vaguely  or 
definitely  present  in  the  artist's  mind.  Upon 
the  character  of  this  conception  or  content 
depends  the  significance  of  the  work  of  art ; 
its  formal  beauty  depends  upon  the  artist's 
skill  to  express  his  thought  or  feeling  in  the 
terms  of  the  particular  medium  which  he  has 
chosen.  Content  and  form  are  therefore 
most  intimately  related  in  the  artist's  per- 
sonality. He  can  express  nothing  through 
the  concrete  medium  of  his  particular  art  — 
whether  it  be  a  pigment  or  clay  or  a  har- 
mony of  musical  sounds  or  a  succession  of 
words  —  unless  it  has  first  passed  through 
the  lens  of  his  own  nature.  It  is  always 
difficult,  and  in  a  certain  sense  unnatural,  to 
make  a  sharp  separation  between  the  ele- 
ments of  content  and  of  form.  The  artist 
himself  rarely  attempts  it.  He  "thinks  ii? 
color  "  or  feels  in  terms  of  musical  sound 
The  finer  the  work  of  art,  the  more  indis- 
solubly  are  the  elements  fused  through  the 
personality  of  the  artist.  And  yet  it  is  often 
of  the  greatest  value  to  the  student  to  at- 
tempt this  separate  analysis,  —  to  distinguish 


THE  STUDY  OF  FICTION  21 

what  has  gone  into  the  work  of  art  from  the 
external  form  in  which  it  is  clothed,  —  and 
in  prose  fiction  form  and  content  are  more 
easily  separable  than  in  poetry  or  music  on 
even  painting. 

No  one  will  deny  the  importance  The  subleot. 
of  the  subject-matter  with  which  ™£*Iot 
prose  fiction  deals.  Its  field  is  hu-  flctlon- 
man  life  itself ;  the  experience  of  the  race, 
under  countless  conditions  of  existence.  Fic- 
tion-writers have  put  into  their  stories  a  mass 
of  observations,  thoughts,  and  feelings  con- 
cerning humankind.  The  significance  of 
these  records  depends  largely  upon  the  sin- 
cerity, the  truthfulness,  of  the  writers.  Some 
of  them  have  been  chiefly  occupied  with 
rendering  the  external  truth  of  fact.  Others, 
like  the  great  romancers,  have  cared  only  for 
the  higher  truth  which  is  revealed  to  and 
conveyed  by  the  imagination.  But  however 
varied  the  scope  of  the  fiction-writer's  activ- 
ity, they  all  have  something  to  say  about  life. 
A.  chapter  of  first-rate  fiction  arrests  the  at- 
tention at  every  turn.  It  provokes  interest, 
awakens  curiosity,  challenges  comparison  with 
one's  own  experience,  and  even  while  it  is 


22  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

energizing  the  imagination,  concentrates  it 
Poetry  touches  us  at  a  higher  level,  it  is  true, 
provided  it  touches  us  at  all.  Poetry  is  a 
finer  art  than  fiction,  but  for  that  very  rea- 
son there  are  many  readers  who  cannot  come 
under  the  domination  of  poetry.  They  have 
no  natural  ear  for  its  music,  and  at  twenty 
or  twenty-two  they  find  themselves  or  think 
themselves  too  old  to  learn  the  notes.  The 
appeal  of  prose  fiction  is  more  universal :  it 
captivates  the  man  who  cares  mainly  for 
facts,  as  well  as  the  girl  whose  heart  is  set 
on  fancies.  Its  scope  is  so  vast,  it  is  so  varied 
in  its  different  provinces,  its  potency  to  at- 
tract and  to  impress  is  so  indubitable,  that 
the  reader  who  makes  no  response  to  it, 
whose  powers  may  not  be  developed  by  means 
of  it,  must  be  insufferably  dull.  Further- 
more, prose  fiction  is,  even  more  than  music, 
the  great  modern  art.  By  means  of  it  we 
are  brought  into  contact  with  modern  ideas, 
with  the  tumultuous,  insistent  life  of  the 
present.  And  this,  for  good  or  evil,  is  our 
life ;  the  life  which  we  must  somehow  live, 
and  about  which  we  are  conscious  of  an  un« 
appeasable  curiosity. 


THE  STUDY  OF  FICTION  23 

Yet  the  educational  value  of  fic- 

The  ques- 
tion consists  not  merely  in  its  con-  tionoi 

ffiTin 

tent,  in  the  significance  of  the 
ideas  which  it  conveys  to  the  mind,  but  also 
to  a  considerable  extent  in  the  form  in  which 
those  ideas  are  clothed.  In  the  best  fiction 
that  form  is  singularly  perfect.  The  study 
of  expression  as  such,  the  cultivation  of  the 
feeling  for  style,  is  inseparably  associated 
with  a  well  selected  course  in  fiction.  The 
special  treatises  in  narration  and  description, 
for  instance,  which  many  teachers  of  rheto- 
ric are  now  using,  draw  their  readiest  and 
aptest  illustrations  from  the  novelists.  The 
range  of  expression,  the  force  and  beauty 
with  which  ideas  are  uttered  by  the  masters 
of  English  fiction,  is  unquestionable.  It  is 
hard  to  see  how  any  one  can  come  away 
from  a  close  study  of  Thackeray  or  Haw- 
thorne without  a  new  appreciation  of  form, 
a  standard  of  workmanship ;  without  learn- 
ing once  for  all  that  imagination  and  pas- 
sion may  coexist  with  a  sense  of  proportion, 
with  purity  of  feeling,  with  artistic  reserve. 
These  last  are  what  we  agree  to  call  the 
classic  qualities.  We  send  boys  to  Greek 
and  Latin  literature  in  the  hope  that 


24  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

will  catch  something  of  their  secret,  but  if 
boys  cannot  or  will  not  read  Greek  and 
Latin,  they  need  not  necessarily  be  unfa- 
miliar with  works  composed  in  the  classic 
spirit.  In  a  time  like  ours,  when  everybody 
writes  "  well  enough,"  and  few  try  to  write 
perfectly,  it  is  no  small  thing  that  students 
may  be  taught  through  fiction  to  perceive 
the  presence  of  style,  the  stamp  of  distinc- 
tion. That  sound  Latinist  and  accomplished 
musician,  Henry  Nettleship,  once  wrote  to  a 
friend  a  passage  about  Wagner  which  is  not 
without  its  bearing  upon  literature.  "  Wag- 
ner tries  to  make  music  do  what  it  cannot 
do  without  degrading  itself  —  namely,  paint 
out  in  very  loud  colors  certain  definite  feel- 
ings as  they  arise  before  the  composer.  The 
older  musicians  seem  to  me  to  aim  rather  at 
suggesting  feeling  than  at  actually  exhibit- 
ing it,  as  it  were,  in  the  flesh.  I  think  much 
of  Wagner  would  vitiate  my  taste,  but  per- 
haps my  head  is  too  full  of  the  older  music 
to  take  in  strains  to  which  my  nerves  are  not 
attuned."  Professor  Nettleship  may  have 
been  right  or  wrong  about  Wagner,  but  is 
there  a  better  service  which  the  teacher  of 
fiction  can  render  a  pupil,  or  the  solitary 


THE  STUDY  OF  FICTION  25 

student  of  literature  perform  for  himself, 
than  to  make  his  head  so  full  of  the  noble 
cadences  of  Scott  and  Thackeray,  Eliot  and 
Hawthorne,  that  there  shall  be  no  room 
there  for  what  has  been  succinctly  described 
as  "  the  neurotic,  the  erotic,  and  the  Tommy- 
rotic,"  and  all  the  other  contemporary  varie- 
ties of  meretricious  and  ignoble  art  ? 

No  one  need  seek  in  any  novel  The  novel 
an  abstract  and  theoretical  perfec-  "Astiietio 
tion.  A  novel  universally  signifi-  oriuolsin- 
cant  in  content  and  impeccable  in  form  has 
never  been  produced.  Some  of  the  most 
stimulating  and  widely  influential  novels 
have  been  slovenly  written ;  and  some  of 
the  most  charmingly  composed  stories  have 
been  barren  of  ethical  and  human  signifi- 
cance. But  it  is  the  province  of  esthetic 
criticism,  none  the  less,  to  determine  the  ex- 
tent to  which  these  two  elements  enter  into 
the  novel  under  discussion,  to  make  clear,  if 
possible,  the  relation  of  the  form  or  content 
of  any  work  of  fiction  to  the  mind  of  the 
artist  who  produced  it.  If  "  there  is  nothing 
in  the  work  of  art  except  what  some  man 
has  put  there,"  it  is  interesting  to  the  critic 
to  understand  not  only  what  intention  the 


26  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

man  has  put  into  his  work  but  the  form  in 
which  that  conception  has  been  expressed. 
To  such  criticism  the  novel  presents  a  field 
no  less  attractive  than  that  of  the  other  fine 
arts.  The  aesthetic  critic  regards  prose  criti- 
cism as  one  species  of  literary  art.  He  is 
primarily  interested  in  novels,  not  for  the 
useful  information  they  may  contain  or  the 
ethical  guidance  they  may  furnish,  but  for 
the  aesthetic  pleasure  they  impart.  His  study 
of  fiction  may  lead  him  into  history  and  bio- 
graphy, into  grammar  and  rhetoric,  perhaps 
into  ethics  and  sociology,  but  what  he  is 
chiefly  endeavoring  to  do  is  to  ascertain 
the  laws  that  govern  the  artistic  expression 
of  the  phenomena  of  human  life  by  means  of 
prose  narration  or  description,  as  compared 
with  its  expression  through  the  media  em- 
ployed by  the  other  arts.  Assuming,  as  we 
have  already  said,  that  prose  fiction  is  an  art, 
he  proceeds  to  study  its  principles.  He  tries 
to  formulate  the  group  of  facts  and  laws 
which  constitute  the  "  body  of  doctrine  " 
concerning  fiction. 

The  value  of  such  a  study  lies 


of  this  chiefy  in  the  pleasure  it  yields,  the 

discipline  it  affords,  to  the  student 


THE  STUDY  OF  FICTION  27 

himself.  The  vast  fiction-reading  public  is 
skeptical  about  the  very  existence  of  standards 
of  judgment.  "  It  is  not  that  there  is  so 
little  taste  nowadays,"  said  some  one  the  other 
day,  "  there  is  so  much  taste,  —  most  of  it 
bad."  But  it  is  the  scholar's  business  to 
take  the  world  as  he  finds  it  and  to  make  it 
a  trifle  better  if  he  can.  The  public,  lawless 
and  inconstant,  craving  excitement  at  any 
price,  journalized  daily,  neither  knowing  nor 
caring  what  the  real  aim  and  scope  of  the 
novel  ought  to  be,  has  the  casting  vote,  after 
all,  upon  great  books  and  little  books  alike. 
From  its  ultimate  verdict  there  is  no  appeal. 
But  the  ultimate  verdict  is  made  up  very 
slowly  and  often  contradicts  the  judgment  of 
the  hour.  Meanwhile  the  scholar  can  quietly, 
persistently,  assert  the  claims  of  excellence. 
From  schools  and  colleges,  from  reading 
circles  and  clubs,  from  isolated  and  unre 
garded  rooms  whose  walls  are  lined  with 
books,  come,  to  serve  as  leaven,  people  who 
know  good  work  from  bad  and  who  know 
why  they  know  it. 


CHAPTER  H 

PROSE    FICTION    AND    POETRY 

**A  novelist  is  on  the  border-line  between  poetry  and  prose, 
and  novels  should  be  as  it  were  prose  saturated  with  poetry." 
LESLIE  STEPHEN,  Daniel  Defoe. 

"  The  great  modern  novelist  is  at  once  scientific  and  poetic  : 
and  here,  it  seems  to  me,  in  the  novel,  we  have  the  meeting,  the 
reconciliation,  the  kiss,  of  science  and  poetry." 

SIDNEY  LANIEK,  The  English  Novel. 

THE  quotation  which  has  just  been  made 
from  Sidney  Lanier  will  serve  to  indicate  the 
theme,  not  only  of  this  chapter,  hut  of  the 
two  following  ones.  In  tracing  the  various 
relations  of  prose  fiction,  we  must  take  ac- 
count of  its  affinities  with  poetry,  and  with 
that  specialized  form  of  poetry,  the  drama. 
But  we  have  also  to  reckon  with  science  and 
with  the  influence  of  the  modern  scientific 
movement  upon  literary  art.  Let  us  begin 
by  noting  the  affiliations  of  prose  fiction  with 
poetry. 

Relations  to         Of  the  three  great  divisions  into 
the  lyrio.        which  poetry  naturally  falls,  namely, 


PROSE  FICTION  AND  POETRY  29 

dramatic,  lyric,  and  narrative,  the  first  has  so 
much  in  common  with  prose  fiction  that  their 
lines  of  relationship  will  need  to  be  discussed 
in  a  separate  chapter.  The  province  of  lyric 
poetry,  on  the  other  hand,  is  so  distinctive 
that  its  points  of  contact  with  prose  fiction 
can  be  easily  defined.  The  lyric  is,  beyond 
any  other  form  of  poetical  expression,  the 
vehicle  of  personal  emotion.  The  "  lyric 
cry  "  is  the  spontaneous  overflow  of  the  indi- 
vidual passion  of  the  poet.  Its  joy  or  pain 
is  egoistic.  It  voices  the  poet's  own  heart,  — 
no  matter  how  many  other  human  hearts  find 
themselves  beating  in  sympathy  with  his  ut- 
terance. Now  it  is  obvious  that  many  novels 
contain  lyrical  passages,  —  that  is,  episodes 
of  heightened  personal  feeling,  transports  of 
happiness,  anguish,  or  exaltation,  which  owe 
their  inspiration  to  the  same  causes  as  those 
which  produce,  in  the  case  of  a  poet,  lyric 
poetry.  There  are  certain  novels,  further- 
more, which  represent  to  a  peculiar  degree 
the  individual  admirations  and  hatreds,  the 
ardent  convictions  and  aspirations  of  their 
authors.  Passages  in  the  Bronte  novels, 
and  whole  books  by  George  Sand,  may  thus 
fairly  be  called  lyrical.  But  it  is  evident 


30 

enough  that  this  highly  emotionalized  atti« 
tude,  this  intimate  expression  of  purely  per 
sonal  feeling,  is  very  far  from  being  the 
normal  mood  of  the  average  fiction  writer. 

It  is  in  the  task  of  the  narrative 

Relations  to  /,••)»  i  n 

narrative  or  "  epic  poet  that  we  find  a  much 
closer  parallel  to  the  work  of  the 
artist  in  prose  fiction.  Both  men  have  a 
story  to  tell,  and  by  comparing  their  methods 
of  workmanship  one  may  learn  a  good  deal 
about  the  limitations  and  relative  advantages 
of  prose  and  poetry  as  media  for  narration. 
For  the  narrative  poet,  like  the  novelist,  finds 
much  of  his  material  ready  to  his  hand,  and 
much  more,  no  doubt,  to  be  "  invented,"  — 
that  is,  selected  and  recombined  from  the 
mass  of  unrelated  memories  and  impressions 
recorded  in  his  mind.  There  is  no  better 
way  of  tracing  the  inevitable  remoulding  of 
narrative  material  by  the  poetic  imagination 
than  to  take  one  of  the  old  stories  of  the 
race  and  to  see  how  poet  and  prose  romancer 
have  in  turn  dealt  with  it.  The  prose  ro- 
mance is  unquestionably  a  historic  develop- 
ment from  narrative  poetry.  Just  as  the 
"  Iliad  "  was  formed  out  of  hero  sagas  and  bal- 
lads of  unknown  origin  and  antiquity,  so  the 


PROSE  FICTION  AND  POETRY  31 

Homeric  poems,  in  turn,  were  broken  up  in 
early  mediaeval  times  into  prose  fictions  like 
those  of  "  Dares  the  Phrygian  "  and  "  Dictys 
the  Cretan."  The  same  process  takes  place 
with  the  post-classical  romances  of  Alexander, 
the  mediaeval  Arthurian  romances,  the  stories 
of  Charlemagne  or  the  Cid.  Verse  passes 
over  into  prose  ;  prose  in  turn  gets  versified 
once  more.  The  material,  for  the  most  part, 
is  immeasurably  old  ;  "  't  is  his  at  last  who 
says  it  best."  A  study  of  these  changing 
forms  —  of  myth  and  legend  as  interpreted 
by  different  races  and  epochs  and  artists  — 
throws  much  light  upon  the  laws  both  of 
prose  fiction  and  of  poetry.  It  affects  more 
or  less  directly  our  appreciation  of  contem- 
porary literary  art,  for  the  universal  sway  of 
the  mediaeval  prose  romance  —  which  itself 
sprang  from  a  poetic  imagination,  and  often 
out  of  actual  embodiment  in  verse  —  pre- 
pared the  way  for  the  modern  novel  as  we 
know  it. 

Yet   those  who  possess   neither  _ 

The  common 

the  interest  nor  the  facilities   for  material  oi 

fiction  and 

the  comparative  study  of  mediaeval  poetry, 
literature  can  observe  for  themselves  many  of 
the  correspondences  and  differences  between 


32  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

prose  fiction  and  poetry.  Let  us  turn,  for 
example,  to  the  material  common  to  both 
poet  and  novelist,  the  sources  from  which 
they  take  the  subject-matter  of  their  art. 
Novelist  and  poet  alike  are  primarily  inter- 
ested in  human  life.  They  describe  it  as  it 
seems  to  have  manifested  itself  in  the  irre- 
vocable past,  as  it  exists  to-day,  and  as  it 
may  be  found  in  the  imaginary,  unknown 
world  of  the  future.  They  are  interested  in 
all  that  surrounds  human  life  and  affects  its 
myriad  operations.  The  external  world,  as 
it  is  portrayed  by  the  novelists  and  poets,  is 
chiefly  a  setting  and  framework  for  the  more 
complete  exhibition  of  human  characteristics. 
The  incidents  which  they  narrate  have  for 
their  aim  the  portrayal  of  character  in  this 
or  that  emergency  and  coil  of  actual  cir- 
cumstance, or  else  they  are  as  it  were  the 
mechanism  —  the  gymnastic  apparatus — by 
which  life  might  test  and  measure  itself  if  it 
pleased.  Both  novelist  and  poet,  in  a  word, 
care  first  of  all  for  persons.  The  differences 
of  temperament  and  literary  craftsmanship 
which  separated  Tennyson  and  Thackeray, 
for  example,  are  relatively  slight  when  com- 
pared with  the  common  element  of  profound 


PROSE  FICTION  AND  POETRY  33 

curiosity  with  which  these  two  writers  ob- 
served men  and  women  and  reflected  upon 
the  conditions  of  human  society.  Indeed, 
the  general  distinction  between  men  of  let- 
ters, like  Thackeray  and  Tennyson  and 
Carlyle,  and  men  of  science,  like  Tyndall, 
Huxley,  and  Darwin,  may  be  roughly  indi- 
cated by  saying  that  the  former  class  are 
mainly  occupied  with  persons,  and  the  latter 
class  with  facts  and  laws. 

The  novelist  and  the  poet,  fur-  gnalltleg 
thermore,  are  alike  in  their  habitual  noveifst'Ld 
mental  operations.  Both  of  them  poet 
must,  to  compass  any  high  artistic  achieve- 
ment, be  thinkers.  They  must  be  able  to 
generalize  from  specific  examples.  But  they 
are  not  so  likely  as  the  historian,  and  surely 
they  are  far  less  likely  than  the  scientist,  to 
pass  from  particulars  to  a  formulation  of  some 
abstract  general  truth.  They  are  more  apt 
to  reason  by  analogy  merely,  to  conclude 
that  because  the  real  Lord  Hertford  did  this 
or  that,  the  imaginary  Marquis  of  Steyne, 
some  of  whose  traits  were  copied  from  Lord 
Hertford's,  would  do  it  likewise.  For  artistic 
ends,  this  sort  of  reasoning  is  no  doubt 
sufficient.  The  scientist  and  philosopher 


M  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

may  argue  that  because  Lord  Hertford  was 
wicked  all  men  are  wicked.  Thackeray  will 
be  content  to  assert  or  imply  the  concrete 
fact  of  the  wickedness  of  the  Marquis  of 
Steyne,  reasoning  by  the  light  of  example 
cast  by  the  real  British  lord  who  served  as 
the  "  original  "  of  the  imaginary  one. 

But   although  the  novelist  and 

Dealing  with  & 

unknown       poet  are  likely  to  step  out  or  their 

quantities.  . 

province  and  enter  that  of  the  phi- 
losopher and  scientist  in  attempting  to  pos- 
tulate general  truths,  it  must  not  be  imagined 
that  they  are  limited  to  any  hard-and-fast 
set  of  specific  examples.  Though  they  reason 
concretely  rather  than  abstractly,  they  deal 
constantly  with  unknown  quantities.  They 
are  forever  asking  themselves,  and  piquing 
the  reader's  curiosity  by  propounding  to 
him,  questions  about  the  potential  qualities 
of  persons.  How  will  this  fictitious  person- 
age, more  or  less  well  known  now  to  the 

O      ' 

reader,  behave  in  these  new  circumstances  ? 
What  will  Ulysses  do  when  he  faces  Penel- 
ope's suitors?  Will  Hamlet  betray  any 
excitement  while  his  uncle  watches  the 
movements  of  the  Player  King  ?  Will  Re- 
becca yield  to  the  Templar,  and  will  Harry 


PROSE  FICTION  AND  POETRY  35 

Esmond  marry  Beatrice  or  Beatrice's  mother  ? 
These  are  the  questions  —  the  immensely 
fascinating  questions  !  —  which  poets  and 
novelists  propose  to  us.  If  we  are  sufficiently 
absorbed  in  the  poem  or  tale,  we  may  have 
our  answers  ready.  The  creator  of  the  tale 
or  poem  is  of  course  bound  to  have  his  an- 
swer ready  too,  and  it  will  turn  very  largely 
upon  his  sense  of  the  action  possible  to  a 
given  character  under  a  given  set  of  circum- 
stances. 

But  the  decision  or  deed  of  one  Wlthpoten. 
personage  affects  all  the  others.  It  Ualvalue»- 
brings,  as  a  painter  would  say,  a  new  set  of 
"  values "  into  the  composition,  just  as  a 
shaft  of  sunlight,  thrown  into  a  room,  alters 
all  the  color  scheme  of  the  room.  Or  it  may 
be  more  simple  to  say  that  the  potential 
qualities  of  the  personages  of  fiction,  whether 
in  prose  or  in  verse,  may  be  compared  to  the 
value  of  the  various  hands  of  cards  in  the 
game  of  whist.  If  diamonds  are  to  be 
trumps,  rather  than  hearts  or  spades  or  clubs, 
the  value  of  every  card  in  the  pack  is  shifted 
accordingly,  and  a  corresponding  scheme  of 
play  must  be  instantly  evolved.  And  if,  in 
a  novel  or  play,  "  hearts  are  trumps,"  if 


36  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

Hamlet  believes  the  Ghost,  or  Tito  Melema 
resolves  to  feign  ignorance  of  Baldassarre, 
all  the  relationships  of  the  persons,  all  the 
turnings  of  the  plot,  are  thereby  affected. 
The  power  to  evoke  the  reader's  curiosity 
and  sympathy  for  such  potential  actions  and 
situations  is  an  essential  element  in  the  skill 
of  the  imaginative  artist. 

The  novelist  and  the  poet  have 

Both  use  •        i  .  i       n    • 

" artistic"      not  only  this  common  fund  or.  m- 

language.  .  ,  .      ., 

terest  in  persons,  and  a  similar 
fashion  of  making  artistic  use  of  the  infi- 
nitely varied  possibilities  of  human  nature, 
but  they  are  also  working  side  by  side  in 
giving  expression  to  their  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings through  language.  Both  are  using 
what  we  rather  indescriptively  call  "  artistic  " 
language,  —  that  is,  words  chosen  for  their 
clearness,  force,  and  beauty  as  vehicles  for 
the  communication  of  conceptions  and  emo- 
tions. Later  nineteenth  century  fiction  was 
particularly  noticeable  for  the  extent  to  which 
it  availed  itself  of  resources  more  commonly 
considered  to  belong  to  poetry  alone.  It 
cultivated  "  prose  poetry,"  —  words  vaguely 
suggestive,  instinct  with  emotional  signifi- 
cance, and  used  in  rhythmical  combinations 


PROSE  FICTION  AND  POETRY  37 

that  give  much  of  the  aesthetic  quality  of 
verse.  Except  in  the  hands  of  an  artist  like 
Poe,  and  indeed  too  often  even  with  him, 
this  use  of  poetic  vocabulary  and  rhythm 
gives  to  prose  fiction  an  over-ornamented, 
meretricious  effect.  But  when  a  master  of 
language  desires  to  produce  at  some  crisis  of 
his  story  an  effect  comparable  to  the  vibrant, 
poignant  impression  which  poetry  imparts, 
what  does  he  do  ?  While  holding  firmly  to 
the  cadences  of  prose,  he  chooses  his  words, 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  from  the  work- 
shop of  the  poet.  Such  wonderful  lyric 
passages  as  Richard  Feverel's  first  vision  of 
Lucy  by  the  river,  the  description  of  the 
Alps  in  "  Beauchamp's  Career,"  the  Yar- 
mouth storm  in  "David  Copperfield,"  are 
examples  of  the  intimate  relationship  of  the 
language  of  heightened,  impassioned  prose 
to  that  of  noble  poetry. 

The  differences  between  the  gen- 
eral functions  of  the  poet  and  the 
novelist   are   no    less    suggestive.  materiaL 
Though    they    may    draw  from    a    common 
fund  of  observations  upon  human  life,  the 
poet  is  forced  to  make  a  much  more  narrow 


38  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

selection  than  the  novelist.  Since  his  task 
is  the  communication  of  emotion  by  means 
of  verbal  images,  the  poet  may  use  only  those 
images  which  affect  us  emotionally.  Theo- 
retically, a  poem  should  contain  nothing  un- 
poetical,  just  as  a  piece  of  music  should  be 
free  from  discords.  To  assert  this,  however, 
is  not  to  forbid  the  use  in  poetry  of  much 
material  that  seems  at  first  view  non-poetical, 
even  if  not  actually  unpoetical.  The  great 
poets,  like  the  great  musicians,  are  constantly 
surprising  us  by  the  beauty,  the  intensity  of 
feeling,  which  can  be  suggested  by  the  most 
unpromising  material.  But  it  is  nevertheless 
more  natural  that  we  should  be  moved  by  the 
image  of  "  a  violet  by  a  mossy  stone  "  than 
by  the  image  of  a  "  little  porringer."  It  is 
hackneyed  criticism  to  remark  that,  if  the  poet 
just  quoted  had  possessed  a  more  unerring 
power  of  poetic  choice  from  among  the  ob- 
jects of  common  life  which  he  celebrated  in 
his  verse,  he  would  less  often  have  made 
himself  ridiculous. 

But  the  novelist  is  bound  by  no 

The  novelist  .  •  i      i  •    •    i 

has  the  larger  such  necessity  to  avoid  the  triviaJ 
and  commonplace.     He  is  not  al- 
ways, like  the  poet,  occupied  with  the  imme 


PROSE  FICTION  AND  POETRY  39 

diate  transmission  of  feeling".  He  may  de- 
vote a  whole  chapter  to  mere  topography. 
He  may  chart  the  scene  of  his  story,  as 
Stevenson  did  before  he  wrote  "  Treasure 
Island,"  or  as  Blackmore  made  a  map  and 
sketches  of  the  Doone  country  before  he 
wrote  his  delightful  romance.  Like  Balzac, 
he  may  write  page  after  page  of  description 
of  the  external  aspect  of  the  house  within 
which  the  human  drama  is  to  be  enacted  ;  or 
like  Flaubert,  he  may  spend  weeks  of  re- 
search in  order  to  investigate  and  describe 
the  precise  details  of  a  Carthaginian  banquet 
table.  All  this  fidelity  to  fact,  this  careful 
preparation  of  the  stage  scenery,  may  find  its 
justification  in  the  added  sense  of  reality,  of 
verisimilitude,  conveyed  by  the  story.  But 
whether  or  not  always  justified  in  actual 
practice,  this  large  freedom  of  the  novelist 
in  the  selection  of  material  contrasts  very 
strongly  with  that  compulsion  which  the  poet 
feels  to  make  each  line  in  itself  a  thing  of 
beauty.  The  novelist,  in  other  words,  is 
always  more  likely  than  the  poet  to  make  a 
generous  use,  in  the  practice  of  his  art,  of 
the  material  furnished  by  his  daily  observa- 
tion of  men  and  things.  One  may  imagine 


40  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

the  three  men  of  letters,  Longfellow,  Haw- 
thorne, and  Mr.  Howells,  walking  down  a 
street  of  Boston  side  by  side.  Out  of  the 
multitude  of  objects  which  would  meet  their 
eyes  as  possible  raw  material  for  literature, 
it  is  likely  that  the  poet  would  make  the 
most  slender  and  scrupulous  selection.  The 
romancer  would  probably  exercise  a  wider 
liberty  of  choice,  and  would  retain  in  his 
mental  notebook  many  facts  and  impressions 
which  the  poet  would  not  find  professionally 
useful.  But  the  last  of  the  three,  the  novelist, 
might  conceivably  make  artistic  use  of  every 
sight  and  sound  and  odor  of  the  street,  find- 
ing a  place  for  it  somewhere  or  other  in  his 
series  of  realistic  pictures  of  contemporary 
American  life. 

There  is  a  further  difference  in 

Thedlfler-  .       <•         •  • 

enoein          the  attitude  oi    typical  poets  and 

temperament.  i        •     •  • 

novelists  toward  their  material. 
The  temperament  of  the  prose  writer  is  pro- 
verbially cooler.  He  does  not  wait  to  invoke 
the  muses,  nor  does  he  ordinarily  write  under 
that  "  fine  frenzy  "  which  often  accompanies 
the  production  of  verse.  The  novelist,  as 
such,  when  compared  with  the  poet,  is  more 
of  a  quiet  note-taker,  a  student  of  character 


PROSE  FICTION  AND  POETRY  41 

and  manners  and  background.  He  is,  as 
Henry  Fielding  loved  to  announce,  "a  his- 
torian of  human  nature."  This  tempera- 
mental and  typical  difference  between  the 
two  artists,  however,  makes  only  the  more 
noticeable  those  great  lyric  passages  found 
here  and  there  in  the  pages  of  masters  of 
fiction,  springing  from  the  depths  of  emo- 
tion, and  voiced  with  a  nobility  and  beauty 
that  we  rightly  associate  with  the  poets  alone. 
We  may  well  believe  that  in  the  composition 
of  such  passages  other  novelists  besides 
George  Eliot  have  written  under  the  over- 
powering impression  which  she  described  to 
Mr.  Cross  :  — 

"  She  told  me  that  in  all  that  she  considered  her 
best  writing  there  was  a  '  not  herself '  which  took  pos- 
session of  her,  and  that  she  felt  her  own  personality  to 
be  merely  the  instrument  through  which  this  spirit,  as 
it  were,  was  acting."  CROSS,  Life  of  George  Eliot. 

The   similarity   already  noticed 

i  i          P     i  i    Verse  and 

between  the  tasks  or  the  poet  and  prose  as  d«- 
the  novelist,  in  that  they  both  give 
expression  through  language  to   quickened 
moods  of  feeling,  must  not  cause  us  to  over- 
look the  different  requirements  of  expression 
in  the  two  media  of  verse  and  prose.     The 


42  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

poet,  thinking  as  he  does  in  images,  is  bound 
to  use  figurative  language ;  thrilling  as  ha 
must  be  with  emotion,  that  language  natu- 
rally falls  into  rhythm ;  his  instinct  for 
ordered  beauty  often  leads  him  to  the  choice 
of  rhyme  ;  and  the  nature  of  his  imagination 
compels  him  to  the  use  of  those  words  and 
cadences  whose  very  sound,  through  some 
occult  and  unanalyzable  associations  and  by 
obscure  imitative  and  suggestive  potencies, 
stir  the  deep,  if  vague,  vibrations  of  the  soul. 
In  these  effects  the  writer  of  prose  fiction 
may,  as  we  have  seen,  share  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent. In  proportion  as  his  emotion  rises  in 
intensity,  his  language  will  tend  not  only  to 
become  tropical,  but,  like  the  language  of  the 
impassioned  orator,  it  will  tend  to  fall  into 
periods  of  more  or  less  regularly  recurrent 
stress.  Yet  this  rhythmical  effect,  often  to 
be  noted  in  powerful  passages  of  prose  fiction, 
is  very  different  from  metrical  effect ;  and 
whenever — as  notoriously  in  some  of  the 
pathetic  paragraphs  of  Dickens  and  the  ani- 
mal stories  of  Mr.  Seton-Thompson  —  the 
rhythm  becomes  the  regular  iambic  beat  of 
English  blank  verse,  the  writer's  intention 
overreaches  and  defeats  itself.  With  rhyme 


PROSE  FICTION  AND  POETRY  43 

the  prose  writer  has  of  course  nothing  to  do. 
Upon  words  of  vague  emotional  connotation 
he  sometimes  does  depend,  in  rendering  cer- 
tain actions  of  nature  or  moods  of  men,  but, 
as  we  have  already  seen,  "  prose  poetry  "  is 
at  best  dubious  ground.  Most  novelists  fare 
better  when,  like  Moliere's  enlightened  hero, 
they  speak  prose,  and  know  that  they  are 
speaking  it. 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  the  po- 

,  „  ,  -  The  asthttlo 

et  s  use  or  metre,  rhyme,  and  tone  values  of 
color  will  always  give  him  techni- 
cal resources  beyond  those  of  the  prose  writer. 
He  has  all  the  instruments  that  the  prose 
writer  possesses,  and  more  besides,  if  one  ex- 
cepts  the  peculiar  cadences,  the  distinctive 
melody  and  harmony  that  belong  exclusively 
to  prose.  It  needs  a  very  fine  ear  to  perceive 
these  as  yet  unanalyzed  aesthetic  values  of 
"loosened  speech,"  —  the  qualities  that  make 
a  sentence  of  prose  give  pleasure  through  its 
sound  alone.  It  may  be  that  we  shall  some 
day  understand  this  better.  Future  rhetori- 
cians and  metricists  may  be  able  to  point  out 
the  tone  values,  the  intricate  and  unrepeated 
harmonies  of  a  page  of  Daudet,  precisely  as 
we  now  endeavor  to  analyze  the  expressional 


44  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

values  of  a  page  of  Racine.  It  is  quite  pos- 
sible that  they  may  assert  that  the  prose 
writer  was  the  rarer  artist.  But  at  present 
nothing  is  to  be  gained,  and  much  has  evi- 
dently been  lost,  by  confusing  the  terri- 
tories of  prose  and  verse,  and  producing, 
under  the  name  of  "  prose  poetry  "  and  the 
"  poetic  short  story,"  a  mass  of  nondescript 
gelatinous  rhetoric  which  can  be  classified  as 
neither  flesh,  fowl,  nor  good  red  herring. 

There  is  still  another  way  of  ap- 
method  oi  preaching  the  subject  of  the  rela- 
tions of  prose  fiction  to  poetry.  It 
is  perhaps  even  more  interesting  than  those 
considered  hitherto,  although,  like  them,  its 
value  consists  rather  in  clarifying  one's  gen- 
eral perception  of  the  variances  in  literary 
forms  than  in  furnishing  exact  critical  for- 
mulas. The  method  of  approach  is  this :  to 
select  writers  who  have  been  both  novelists 
and  poets;  to  study  the  different  sides  of 
their  natures  that  have  been  expressed 
through  the  two  arts  ;  and  by  this  means  to 
get  light  upon  the  character  of  the  arts 
themselves.  It  is  not  difficult  to  see  that 
George  Eliot,  for  instance,  betrayed  through 


PROSE  FICTION  AND  POETRY  <J6 

the  medium  of  such  verse  as  "  Jubal "  and 
"  How  Lisa  loved  the  King "  a  yearning, 
romantic  vein  of  emotion  which  could  find 
no  such  natural  channel  of  expression  in  her 
realistic  novels.  Thackeray's  verse  seems  at 
times  to  be  an  even  more  direct  outpouring 
of  his  own  kindly,  melancholy  self  than  is  to 
be  found  in  his  fiction,  in  spite  of  the  obvi- 
ous fact  that  in  his  stories  he  is  forever  com- 
ing upon  the  stage  himself  to  explain  and 
comment  upon  his  characters.  The  two 
Walter  Scotts,  the  poet  and  the  novelist, 
were  quite  different  persons.  The  novelist 
was  not  merely  the  poet  grown  older,  grown 
tired  of  competing  with  Byron  for  the  pub- 
lic favor ;  he  was  a  greater,  saner,  wiser 
man,  in  closer  touch  with  the  enduring 
realities  of  human  nature.  But  he  had  lost 
something,  too.  The  rival  arts  of  verse  and 
prose  were  fitted  to  be  the  medium  of  the 
slowly  changing  outlook  upon  life  which  is 
to  be  observed  in  passing  from  the  younger 
to  the  elder  Walter  Scott,  and  no  one  can 
feel  this  without  a  new  insight  into  the 
essential  nature  of  verse  and  prose  as  tools 
for  the  literary  artist. 


«6  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

There  is  a  very  familiar  phrase  of 

The  novel  as     ^          .  .          ., ": 

"a criticism  Matthew  Arnold  which  applies  to 
the  modern  novel  even  more  aptly 
than  to  poetry.  "  Poetry,"  said  that  great 
critic  and  admirable  poet,  "  is  a  criticism  of 
life."  This  remark  has  often  indeed  been 
understood  in  too  narrow  a  sense.  Arnold 
meant  by  criticism  an  interpretation,  an  ap- 
preciation of  human  life  upon  its  ideal  side, 
such  an  interpretation  as  Wordsworth  or 
Dante  or  Goethe  gives  us.  But  the  power  to 
do  this  through  the  medium  of  verse  is  rare, 
and  it  has  often  happened  that  poets  like 
Arnold,  like  his  master  Sainte-Beuve,  like  our 
own  Mr.  Ho  wells,  have  gradually  ceased  to 
compose  verse,  and  have  turned  their  atten- 
tion more  and  more  to  prose  criticism.  It  is 
true  that  criticism  as  produced  by  such  men  is 
in  itself  literature ;  it  may  possess  qualities  of 
high  and  permanent  worth.  But  such  critics 
as  these  would  probably  be  the  first  to  admit 
that,  compared  with  poetry  of  equally  high 
relative  position  in  its  class,  criticism  is  a 
second  best.  However  stimulating  it  may 
be  to  the  intelligence,  however  fortifying 
and  tonic  to  the  will,  the  natural  instincts  of 
the  heart  teach  that  poetry  is  somehow  per- 


PROSE  FICTION  AND  POETRY  47 

forming  a  higher  office  than  prose  criticism. 
It  deals  on  the  whole  with  nobler  aspects  of 
things,  and  deals  with  them  in  a  nobler  way. 
The  same  is  true  o£  the  rivalry  between  the 
novelist  and  the  poet.  Both  may  be  seers, 
but  the  novelist  is  compelled  by  the  very 
terms  of  his  art  to  say  what  he  sees,  while 
the  poet  sings  it.  And  the  singer  is  above 
the  sayer.  Whether  one  is  comparing  the 
differing  gifts  of  a  single  writer  like  Victor 
Hugo,  who  wrought  such  marvels  in  both 
the  arts  —  "  Victor  in  Drama,  Victor  in  Ro- 
mance "  —  or  comparing  the  typical  poet 
with  the  typical  novelist,  or  studying  the  his- 
tory of  those  prose  romances  and  poems 
which  are  a  part  of  the  intellectual  heritage 
of  the  race,  it  becomes  clear  that  poetry  is 
the  finer  art.  Yet  the  greatest  triumphs  of 
prose  fiction  have  been  won  by  those  books 
in  which  the  interpretation  of  life,  the  crea- 
tive imagination,  and  the  mastery  of  lan- 
guage have  been  akin  to  those  revealed 
by  enduring  poetry.  Hence  it  is  that  the 
student  of  prose  fiction  should  constantly 
observe,  not  the  romancer  alone,  but  also  the 
aims  and  methods  of  the  poet  and  the 
dramatist. 


CHAPTER  III 

FICTION    AND    THE    DRAMA 

"  It  may  fairly  be  claimed  that  humanity  has,  within  the  past 
hundred  years,  found  a  way  of  carrying  a  theatre  in  its  pocket ; 
and  so  long  as  humanity  remains  what  it  is,  it  will  delight  in 
taking  out  its  pocket-stage  and  watching  the  antics  of  the 
actors,  who  are  so  like  itself  and  yet  so  much  more  interesting. 
Perhaps  that  is,  after  all,  the  best  answer  to  the  question, 
'  What  is  a  novel  ?  '  It  is,  or  ought  to  be,  a  pocket-stage." 
F.  MAKION  CRAWFORD,  The  Novel :  What  It  Is. 


•The  terms  WE  have  already  noted  some  of 

•' drama  "<asd  *ne  general  relations  between  prose 
here  used.  fiction  and  poetry,  and  have  re- 
marked that  one  of  the  chief  poetic  types, 
the  drama,  has  such  intimate  affiliations 
with  the  novel  as  to  deserve  treatment  in  a 
special  chapter.  In  commenting  upon  the 
similarities  and  differences  of  function  that 
characterize  these  two  literary  forms,  it  will 
be  more  simple  to  use  the  term  "  novel "  in 
a  wide  sense,  as  including  the  romance  and 
short  story,  and  the  term  "  drama  "  as  in- 
dicating plays  written  both  in  prose  and  in 
verse,  but  always  as  compositions  intended 


FICTION  AND  THE  DRAMA  49 

for  actual  stage  representation.  The  "  closet 
drama  "  —  the  play  that  is  not  intended  to 
be  played  —  is  an  isolated  though  a  very 
interesting  literary  species  which  does  not 
fall  within  the  range  of  the  present  chapter. 
Using  the  "  novel,"  then,  as 

The  object  ol 

synonymous  with  narrative  prose  both  novel 
fiction,  and  the  "drama"  as  mean-  characters  in 
ing  the  acted  play,  we  may  begin 
by  observing  that  both  novel  and  drama 
have  for  their  object  the  exhibition  of  char- 
acters in  action.  How  far  a  given  personal- 
ity can  be  made  to  reveal  itself  through 
visible  action  and  audible  words  upon  the 
stage  must  in  each  individual  instance  be 
decided  by  the  dramatist.  Mere  physical 
"  business  "  upon  the  boards,  exits  and  en- 
trances, crossing  from  left  to  right  and  back 
again,  may  not  afford  that  kind  of  dramatic 
" action"  which  makes  manifest  the  essential 
character  of  a  stage  personage.  On  the 
other  hand,  Hamlet's  irresolution,  his  failure 
to  act,  is  in  itself  a  positive  dramatic  force ; 
it  may  be  reckoned  upon  like  any  other. 
The  element  of  external  action  is  indeed  less 
necessary  to  the  novel,  because  the  author 
can  describe  mental  attitudes  instead  of  visu- 


60  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

alizing  them  for  the  eye  of  the  spectator, 
He  can  sometimes  rouse  our  intense  curios- 
ity and  eagerness  by  the  mere  depiction  of 
a  psychological  state,  as  Walter  Pater  has 
done  in  the  case  of  Sebastian  Storck  and 
other  personages  of  his  "Imaginary  Por- 
traits." The  fact  that  "  nothing  happens " 
in  stories  of  this  kind  may  be  precisely  what 
most  interests  us,  because  we  are  made  to 
understand  what  it  is  that  inhibits  action. 
But  the  great  majority  of  novels  and  plays 
represent  human  life  in  nothing  more  faith- 
fully than  in  their  insistence  upon  deeds. 
It  is  through  action  —  tangible,  visible  action 
upon  the  stage,  or,  in  the  novel,  action  sug- 
gested by  the  medium  of  words  —  that  the 
characters  of  the  play  and  the  novel  are  or- 
dinarily revealed.  In  proportion  as  high  art 
is  attained  in  either  medium  of  expression 
this  action  is  marked  by  adequacy  of  motive, 
by  conformity  to  the  character,  by  progres- 
sion and  unity. 

What  is  more,  there  are  marked 

Similarities ' 

in  construe-  similarities  in  the  general  construc- 
tion. .  * 

tion  —  the  architecture,  so  to  say 

—  of  the  two  literary  forms  which  we  are 
considering.  Suppose  we  take  up  the  sepa- 


FICTION  AND  THE  DRAMA  51 

rate  portions  of  tke  drama,  those  "  parts " 
and  "  moments "  of  its  technical  structure 
which  have  interested  students  of  dramatic 
literature  from  the  time  of  the  Greek  rhet- 
oricians to  our  own.  Each  one  of  these 
various  functions,  performed  by  a  definite 
portion  of  the  play,  has  its  parallel  in  the 
architectonics  of  prose  fiction. 

In  both  play  and  novel,  for  in-  The  exposi- 
stance,  it  is  the  first  task  of  the  UoiL 
author  to  explain  the  characters  and  circum- 
stances which  are  essential  to  an  understand- 
ing of  the  plot.  Upon  his  skill  in  so  presenting 
his  personages  and  their  surroundings  that 
they  may  be  intelligently  understood  at  the 
outset  depends  a  large  measure  of  his  suc- 
cess. The  first  act  of  a  play  is  thus  spoken 
of  as  the  act  containing  the  "  exposition." 
Like  the  overture  of  a  musical  composition, 
it  indicates  the  nature  of  the  whole.  Now 
the  opening  chapters  of  a  novel,  or  the  first 
lines  of  a  short  story,  have  a  precisely  simi- 
lar function  to  perform.  It  is  true  that  in 
the  novel  the  exposition  may  be  far  more 
deliberate.  The  play-wright  has  not  a  mo- 
ment to  lose  after  the  curtain  has  once 
risen ;  every  moment  of  opening  action 


52  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

counts  heavily  for  or  against  his  chances  of 
interesting  the  audience  in  the  personages 
of  the  play.  But  Walter  Scott  and  Thack- 
eray and  Dickens  ramble  along  in  chapter 
after  chapter  of  pleasant  prologues  without 
appreciably  advancing  towards  the  real  story 
which  they  have  to  tell,  —  so  confident  were 
these  authors,  no  doubt,  of  their  power  to 
secure  the  attention  of  their  readers,  and  so 
unerringly,  in  general,  did  they  utilize  all 
their  apparently  trivial  descriptive  and  nar- 
rative details  in  instinctively  forecasting  the 
final  cumulative  effect  of  the  tale. 

These  details  are  not  only  more 

Accurate  pro-  J 

sentation  of     deliberately  presented  in  the  novel 

detail. 

than  would  be  possible  in  the  play, 
but  they  are  also  more  accurately  presented. 
There  is  less  for  us  to  guess  at.  The  novel- 
ist, in  spite  of  all  the  suppressions  which  his 
art  makes  necessary,  tells  us  more,  and  leaves 
us  less  often  to  our  own  inferences,  than  the 
play-wright.  When  the  story-writer  describes 
his  heroine,  we  doubtless  see  her  less  dis- 
tinctly than  if  the  dramatist  had  sent  her 
down  the  stage  for  our  inspection,  but 
whereas  the  dramatist  is  forced  to  let  us  in- 
fer what  is  in  her  mind  by  her  appearance, 


FICTION  AND  THE  DRAMA  53 

her  facial  expression,  gestures,  words,  and 
the  attitude  of  other  personages  respecting 
her,  the  novelist  can  tell  us  precisely  and  at 
once  what  she  is  thinking  about  and  what 
she  is  likely  to  do.  But  whatever  may  be 
the  differences  in  technique,  both  novelist 
and  dramatist  are  bent  first  of  all  upon  in- 
troducing their  characters. 

Then  comes,  commonly  in  the 

•  1 11  11  i     f          The  "erolt- 

middle  or  towards  the  end  of  the  tug"  force « 

n  f  i  "moment" 

first  act  of  the  play,  and  not  far 
from  the  beginning  of  a  well  constructed 
tale,  what  is  called  the  "  exciting  (or  "  in- 
citing ")  force  "  or  "  moment."  Something 
happens,  and  even  though  this  happening 
may  be  apparently  insignificant,  it  begins  to 
affect  the  entire  course  of  the  plot.  The 
Ghost  appears  to  Hamlet ;  the  witches  con- 
front Macbeth ;  Cassius  talks  with  Brutus ; 
the  clash  of  interest  begins ;  the  lines  of 
party  or  of  faction,  of  individual  ambition 
or  resolve,  are  suddenly  apparent.  In  the 
tale  this  "  moment "  —  the  little  weight  that 
turns  the  scale  —  is  frequently  quite  undra- 
matic  and  unimpressive,  but  it  can  usually 
be  pointed  out.  In  "  Pendennis  "  it  is 
where  the  major  receives  the  letter  from  his 


64  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

sister  which  tells  about  Arthur's  infatuation 
for  Miss  Fotheringay.  In  "  The  House  of 
the  Seven  Gables  "  it  is  the  opening  of  the 
shop  after  all  the  years  of  dust  and  silence. 
In  a  romance  of  adventure,  like  Stevenson's 
"  Kidnapped,"  it  is  the  orphan  boy  leaving 
home  at  early  dawn  to  seek  his  fortune  up 
and  down  the  world. 

The  develop-  No  sooner  are  the  currents  of 
ment<  action  fairly  flowing,  both  in  play 

and  in  novel,  than  their  speed  and  power  per- 
ceptibly increase.  Throughout  the  second, 
and  into  the  third  act  of  a  five-act  play,  we 
witness  what  Freytag  called  the  "  heighten- 
ing ; "  that  is,  not  merely  quickened  move- 
ment, but  more  passionate  feeling,  a  closer 
contact  of  personal  forces,  a  more  violent 
collision  of  wills,  a  greater  complication  of 
the  various  threads  of  the  plot,  the  entangle- 
ment of  a  greater  number  of  personages  in 
the  intrigue  or  the  achievement  upon  which 
the  play  is  based.  In  the  novel  this  develop- 
ment is  not  necessarily,  as  upon  the  stage, 
accompanied  and  indicated  by  a  more  rapid 
and  emphasized  external  action.  It  may  pro- 
ceed through  the  slow  growth  of  character 
alone,  and  only  its  silently  accumulated  re- 


FICTION  AND  THE  DRAMA  65 

suits  be  in  due  time  manifest.  Dorothea 
Casaubon  in  "  Middlemarch "  and  Tess  in 
"  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles  "  pass  through 
such  periods  of  almost  unregarded  prepara- 
tion, of  gradual  ripening  for  the  great  crises 
of  their  lives.  Thus  chapters  describing 
Dorothea's  life  after  her  marriage  and  Tess's 
sojourn  in  Froom  Vale  belong  to  the  "  devel- 
opment "  of  the  story,  but  are  unexciting 
enough  in  themselves.  But  the  best  novel, 
surely,  like  the  best  play,  is  that  in  which 
inner  character  and  outward  action  are  de- 
veloped simultaneously  ;  in  which  the  growth 
of  mind  and  heart  and  will  are  expressed 
through  tangible  and  striking  scenes.  In 
this  respect  "  Vanity  Fair "  and  "  A  Tale 
of  Two  Cities "  and  "  Adam  Bede "  and 
"  Pan  Michael  "  —  to  choose  stories  of  very 
different  types  —  accomplish  what  Shake- 
speare accomplished  in  "  Macbeth."  They  al- 
low us  to  watch  the  growth  or  the  decay  of 
a  soul  even  while  we  are  fascinated  by  a 
spectacle. 

Near  the  middle  of  the  typical 
play  —  commonly  in  the  third  act 
of   a  five-act  drama  —  is  what  is  variously 
called   the  "  highest   point,"  the  "  turning 


66  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

point,"  the  "climax,"  or  the  "grand  cli- 
max." It  is  the  scene  where  the  dramatic 
forces  which  are  contending  for  the  mastery 
are  most  evenly  balanced.  One  cannot  say 
whether  the  hero  or  the  intriguer,  the  protag- 
onist or  the  antagonist,  will  conquer.  It  is 
the  point  of  greatest  tension  between  the  op- 
posing powers.  It  is  watched  by  the  specta- 
tors with  something  of  the  feeling  with  which 
one  sees  a  sky-rocket  turn  in  its  upward 
flight  and  begin  its  fall.  This  momentary 
equilibrium  between  the  "  rising  "  and  the 
"  falling "  action  of  the  play  may  not  ne- 
cessarily call  forth  the  greatest  excitement 
from  spectators.  That  may  be  reserved  for 
the  catastrophe,  which  may  be  compared  to 
the  bursting  of  the  sky-rocket  as  it  nears  the 
end  of  its  downward  flight.  And  yet  the 
great  climax  scenes  in  Shakespeare,  for  in- 
stance, are  stamped  indelibly  upon  the  mem- 
ory :  Macbeth  at  the  banquet ;  Lear  in  the 
hut ;  Caesar  at  the  senate  house ;  Hamlet 
watching  the  play  within  the  play. 
The  "tragic  ^n  a  tragedy  the  grand  climax 
moment"  -g  usua]}y  immediately  preceded  or 
followed  by  what  is  called  the  "  tragic  mo- 
ment," —  the  event  which  makes  a  tragic 


FICTION  AND  THE  DRAMA  57 

outcome  unavoidable  and  foredooms  to  fail- 
ure every  subsequent  struggle  of  the  hero 
against  his  fate.  The  speech  of  Mark  An- 
tony, the  killing  of  Polonius,  the  escape  of 
Fleance,  are  examples  of  the  "  tragic  mo- 
ment," and  it  will  be  seen  how  closely  this  is 
associated  with  what  the  Greeks  named  the 
"  turn,"  —  the  beginning  of  the  "  falling 
action." 

It  is  not  often  that  a  novel  pre-  Olljnaxlll 
sents  such  striking  examples  of  thenovel- 
skillfully  constructed  climax.  In  the  Spanish- 
born  picaresque  romance,  —  so  named  be- 
cause its  hero  is  a  picaro,  a  rogue,  —  and  in 
the  modern  romance  of  adventure,  all  that 
is  usually  attempted  is  to  invent  a  brisk  suc- 
cession of  incidents  and  situations,  designed 
to  capture  the  attention  of  the  reader  by  any 
device,  rather  than  to  conform  rigidly  to 
those  technical  conventions  upon  which  the 
success  of  the  play-wright  is  constantly  depen- 
dent. In  the  novel  of  manners  or  the  novel 
of  character,  instead  of  a  "  grand  climax  " 
there  is  likely  to  be  a  series  of  less  noticeable 
scenes  which  reveal  or  determine  the  person- 
ality of  the  men  and  women  involved.  There 
could  scarcely  be  a  better  illustration  of  the 


B8  A  STUDY   OF  PROSE  FICTION 

difference  in  method,  as  between  the  drama 
and  the  novel,  than  that  scene  in  George 
Eliot's  "  Middlemarch  "  where  Lydgate,  at 
the  meeting  of  the  directors  of  the  hospital, 
is  forced  to  declare  his  vote  for  either  Fare- 
brother  or  Tyke.  It  is  a  scene  of  thrilling 
psychological  interest.  A  human  soul  is 
hanging  in  the  balance ;  but  the  situation  is 
wholly  lacking  in  dramatic  impressiveness, 
judged  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  play- 
wright. Yet  in  "  Vanity  Fair  "  the  chapter 
which  describes  how  Rawdon  Crawley  knocked 
down  the  Marquis  of  Steyne  is  very  obviously 
the  "  grand  climax  "  of  the  book.  It  marks 
the  "  highest  point "  in  Becky's  worldly  for- 
tunes, and  her  detection  by  her  husband  is  the 
"  turn  "  with  which  begins  the  long  episode 
of  her  losing  fight  with  society.  In  the 
stage  version  of  "  Vanity  Fair  "  it  is  equally 
interesting  to  note  the  climactic  quality  of 
this  scene.  But  it  may  be  said  in  general 
that  the  novel  has  a  far  greater  freedom  of 
method  than  the  play,  as  regards  the  use 
either  of  a  grand  climax  or  of  a  series  of  cli- 
maxes. So  entirely  lacking  in  dramaturgic 
possibilities  is  the  plot  of  many  a  story  that  the 
climax  is  identified  with  the  conclusion,  and 


u 


FICTION  AND  THE  DRAMA  69 

one  reads  on  with  the  simple  desire  to  learn 
"  how  it  comes  out,"  rather  than  to  watch 

—  as  upon  the  stage  —  the  struggle  of  the 
embodied  forces   upon  which  the  outcome 
depends. 

We  have  already  implied   that 

Tho  "  fall  " 

the  "  highest  point  "  or  "  climax  " 
of  a  typical  drama  marks  the  division  of  the 
two  processes  out  of  which  the  plot  of  a  play 
is  made.  These  processes  are  frequently  de- 
scribed as  the  "  complication  "  —  the  weaving 
together  of  the  various  threads  of  interest 

—  and  the  "  resolution  "  —  the  untangling 
of  the  threads  again.     "  Tying  "  and  "  un- 
tying "    are   still   simpler   terms  j    and   the 
French  word  for  untying,  the  denoument,  has 
grown  familiar  to  us,  though  it  is  often  used 
for  what  is  technically  known  as  the  "  catastro- 
phe," rather  than  as  descriptive  of  the  entire 
"falling  action,"  of  which  the  catastrophe 
is  only  the  final  stage.     Freytag  was  one  of 
the  first  to  point  out  that,  in  planning  the 
"  fall "  of  a  tragic  drama,  the  play-wright 
manages  to  maintain  the  interest  of  the  spec- 
tators by  striking  scenic  effects,  by  passages 
of  intense  psychological  interest,  like  Juliet's 
monologue,  or  Lady  Macbeth's  sleep-walking 


60  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

scene,  or  by  making  the  hero  struggle  su* 
perbly  against  the  "  counterplayers."  If  the 
play  be  a  comedy,  he  interposes  new  obstacles 
in  the  path  of  the  lovers,  or  he  removes  these 
only  to  bring  to  view  obstacles  more  for- 
midable still. 

The  "final  Both  in  comedy  and  in  tragedy 
suspense."  there  is  the  "  moment  of  final  sus- 
pense," when  the  sinister  or  happy  fortune 
presaged  by  the  general  nature  of  the  "  fall- 
ing action  "  seems  contradicted,  or  at  least 
held  in  suspense,  by  some  unforeseen  occur- 
rence, like  Macbeth's  triumphal  announce- 
ment of  the  prophecy  that  he  was  not  to  be 
slain  by  any  man  born  of  woman,  or  the  news 
that  comes  to  Richard  Third  that  the  fleet 
of  his  rival,  Richmond,  has  been  destroyed 
by  a  storm.1 

The  catas-  And  then  comes  swiftly  the  catas- 
trophe, trophe,  —  the  inexorable  doom  of 
tragedy,  the  "  Bless  you,  my  children  !  "  of 
conventional  comedy,  —  the  final  allotment 
of  fortune  to  the  personages  of  the  play.  It 
must  always  seem  reasonable,  must  appear  to 
be  of  "  the  nature  of  things."  However 

1  These   illustrations  are   drawn  from  Freytag's  Tech* 
tuque  of  the  Drama. 


FICTION  AND   THE   DRAMA  61 

much  one  may  grieve  over  the  pity  and  ter- 
ror  of  it,  it  must  be  recognized  as  essentially, 
though  perhaps  mysteriously,  just.  The  vis- 
ible catastrophe,  like  the  death  of  Othello 
or  of  Hamlet,  is  the  outward  symbol  of  what 
has  already  taken  place  within  the  soul.  It 
embodies  for  sense-perception,  as  all  art 
must,  the  dramatist's  thought;  it  sets  the 
seal  of  unity  upon  his  completed  work. 

What  parallel  does  prose  fiction 
offer  to  the  dramatist's  handling  of  ment  in 
the  "resolution,"  the  "  untying,"  of 
his  plot  ?  In  the  so-called  "  plot  novel "  the 
parallel  is  very  close  indeed.  The  first  half 
of  a  detective  story  often  occupies  itself  with 
knotting  as  firmly  as  possible  the  threads  of 
the  mystery ;  the  second  half  is  devoted  to 
a  skillful  untangling.  When  the  hero  or 
heroine  of  fiction  has  once  made  a  fatal 
choice,  the  "  fall "  proceeds  along  precisely 
the  same  lines  as  in  the  drama.  The  drama 
has  been  defined  as  made  up  of  impulse, 
deed,  and  consequence,  and  in  depicting  the 
"  consequence  "  the  novelist  can  adjust  out- 
ward action  to  inward  struggle  as  finely  as 
the  dramatist.  Indeed  the  tragic  degenera- 
tion of  such  a  character  as  Tito  Melema  in 


82  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

"  Romola  "  can  be  expressed  more  sensitively 
by  the  methods  of  narration  and  description 
than  by  the  relatively  coarser  effects  neces- 
sary for  visible  representation  upon  the  stage. 
Novels  as  far  apart  in  their  aims  and  methods 
of  workmanship  as  Kingsley's  "  Here  ward  " 
and  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward's  "Eleanor"  have 
in  common  this  admirable  adjustment  of  inner 
mood  to  outward  event.  In  psychological 
romances  like  Hawthorne's  "  Marble  Faun  " 
and  "  Scarlet  Letter,"  the  denoument  takes 
place  in  the  heart  and  mind  of  the  charac- 
ters ;  the  author  is  so  concerned  with  this, 
his  immediate  purpose,  that  he  frequently 
becomes  indifferent  to  the  interests  of  exter- 
nal action.  When  Hawthorne's  publishers 
insisted  upon  his  writing  an  additional  chap- 
ter to  the  "  Marble  Faun,"  in  order  to  tell 
what  became  of  the  various  personages  of 
the  story,  he  good-naturedly  complied ;  but 
it  is  evident  that  his  task  was  perfunctory. 
Indeed  it  may  be  said  that  in  proportion  as 
the  purely  psychological  interest  predomi- 
nates in  a  story  it  becomes  less  necessary  to 
arrange  the  external  catastrophe  with  an  eye 
to  dramatic  effect.  The  great  creators  of 
character  in  fiction  have  the  art  of  making 


FICTION  AND  THE   DRAMA  63 

us  believe  in  the  real  existence  of  the  men 
and  women  they  portray.  They  throw  a 
vivid  light  upon  the  few  links  of  the  endless 
chain  of  human  existence  and  activity  ;  and 
though  the  story  stops  we  have  an  irresistible 
impression  that  the  men  and  women  are  con- 
tinuing to  live.  Their  personality  so  domi- 
nates the  imagination  that  we  refuse  to  think 
of  them  as  merely  pigeon-holed  in  some  of 
the  final-chapter  categories,  such  as  "  happily 
married"  or  "dead."  They  are  alive  for- 
evermore  to  the  sympathetic  imagination. 

Rather  curiously,   the   romance 
of  mere  adventure,  like  "  The  Three  ment  in 
Musketeers,"  often  treats  the  de- 
noument  with  singular  unconcern.    What  in- 
terests us  here  is  not  so  much  the  characters 
as  the  adventures  which  beset  them  upon  the 
road,  and  when  all  the  journeyings  are  ended 
it  makes  little  difference  in  what  room  of  the 
inn  the  personages  find  rest.     It  is  the  more 
normal  type  of  fiction,  where  both  character- 
interest  and  the  interest  of  outward  action 
are  intimately  joined,  that  affords  in  its  de*- 
nouments  the  closest  parallels  to  the  denou- 
ments   of   the   conventional   drama.      It   is 
closer  to  the  realities  of  life  than  either  the 


64  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

romance  of  pure  psychology  or  the  romance 
of  pure  adventure,  for  it  conceives  of  the 
human  mind  and  heart,  not  as  something 
apart  from  external  deeds,  nor  again  of  deeds 
as  something  intrinsically  interesting,  but 
rather  of  soul  and  deed  together,  inextricably 
joined. 

We   have  seen  that   the   novel 

The  novel 

and  the  play    attords  to  the  artist  an  opportunity 

as  modes  of  .  „ 

reaching  the    to  communicate,  by  means  ot  nar- 

pufclic.  .  ,  .      .  . 

ration  and  description,  certain  im- 
ages which  the  dramatist  can  present  in  tan- 
gible, visible  form.  But  the  indirect  method 
of  presentation,  by  means  of  narration  and 
description,  is  perfectly  fitted  to  the  gifts 
and  circumstances  of  certain  writers.  Char- 
lotte Bronte's  ignorance  of  the  world  of 
action  would  probably  have  made  it  impossi- 
ble for  her  to  turn  play-wright,  but,  apart 
from  some  obvious  faults  of  unreality,  it 
scarcely  affected  her  achievement  as  a  novel- 
ist. Authors  with  a  far  wider  experience  of 
life,  like  Cooper  or  Hawthorne,  would  have 
found  their  ignorance  of  the  technique  of 
the  stage  a  formidable  obstacle  to  communi- 
cating with  the  public  through  that  medium, 


FICTION  AND   THE   DRAMA  65 

Many  writers,  furthermore,  shrink  from  the 
associations  of  the  stage.  Although  there  is 
far  more  pecuniary  profit  to  the  author  from 
a  successful  play  than  from  the  average  suc- 
cessful novel,  and  although  in  some  coun- 
tries, notably  in  France,  the  authorship  of  a 
play  brings  more  instant  personal  recogni- 
tion, play-writing  demands  a  long  and  ardu- 
ous period  of  apprenticeship.  Even  after 
years  of  familiarity  with  technical  stagecraft, 
it  is  far  more  difficult  to  get  a  manuscript 
play  accepted  than  it  is  to  secure  publication 
for  a  manuscript  novel.  Most  authors  choose, 
or  are  forced  to  follow,  the  easier  path.  If 
they  really  have  something  to  say,  they 
have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  their 
novels  bring  them  into  touch  with  a  more 
varied  public  than  that  which  patronizes  the 
theatre.  The  novel  reaches  thousands  of 
isolated  persons,  as  well  as  a  community  of 
pleasure  seekers.  Then,  too,  it  calls  forth, 
at  least  in  its  more  powerful  examples,  a 
more  sustained,  uninterrupted  emotional  ac- 
tivity than  is  afforded  by  a  play.  Dramatic 
representations  last  but  three  or  four  hours 
at  most ;  a  great  novel  frequently  dominates, 
possesses,  the  imagination  of  the  reader  for 


66  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

many  days.  Not  that  the  play  is  forgotten, 
but  the  book,  after  all,  seems  to  come  into  a 
more  enduring,  permanent  relation  with  its 
reader. 

Besides  these  general  and  per- 

Advantages  .  °  r 

«i  the  novel  haps  too  theoretical  diiterences  be- 
tween the  novelist's  and  the  drama- 
tist's modes  of  addressing  their  public,  there 
are  certain  definite  and  indisputable  advan- 
tages which  the  novelist  possesses.  One  is 
the  power  to  convey  mental  phenomena  with 
exactness.  Although  the  dramatist,  by  the 
simple  expedient  of  raising  a  curtain,  can 
make  us  see  the  heroine  as  she  sits  in  her 
•chair,  and  cause  us  to  apprehend  her  physi- 
cal characteristics  more  clearly  than  any 
writer  could  convey  them  to  us,  the  novelist 
has  a  great  advantage  when  he  wants  to  tell 
us  what  is  passing  in  the  heroine's  mind. 
He  is  not  forced,  like  the  dramatist,  to  make 
us  infer  what  she  is  thinking  about;  he  is 
not  left  to  the  mercy  of  the  actress's  inter- 
pretation of  his  lines ;  he  tells  us  precisely 
what  the  heroine  thinks  and  feels.  Further- 
more, as  the  chapter  on  Setting  will  show, 
the  novelist  has  it  in  his  power  to  convey 
the  effect  of  many  natural  phenomena,  as  for 


FICTION   AND  THE  DRAMA  67 

instance  the  sea,  far  more  perfectly  through 
words,  than  any  stage  carpenter  and  scene 
painter  and  expert  with  electric  lights  can 
possibly  contrive  to  do.  But  the  greatest 
advantage  of  the  novelist,  no  doubt,  lies  in 
his  liberty  to  introduce  material  which  is  not 
strictly  concerned,  as  every  line  of  the  drama- 
tist's should  be,  with  the  exhibition  of  charac- 
ters in  action.  He  has  some  measure  of  the 
poet's  "  unchartered  freedom "  to  depict 
beautiful  objects,  unconcerned  with  their  im- 
mediate bearing  upon  the  problem  in  hand. 
He  is  by  turns  scientist,  sociologist,  explorer, 
and  historian,  conveying  all  sorts  of  infor- 
mation about  the  world  we  live  in,  in  its 
infinite  varieties  of  aspect  and  appeal.  In 
his  own  comment  upon  the  personages  and 
action  of  his  story,  he  usurps  the  function 
of  the  ancient  chorus,  and  turns  philosopher. 
He  may  forget  his  story,  for  the  time  being, 
in  these  wise  or  profound  or  playful  "  asides" 
to  his  readers.  Yet  though  the  laws  of 
purely  objective  art,  both  in  drama  and  in 
prose  fiction,  would  deny  him  this  privilege, 
"  he  will  still  be  prating,"  and  in  this  very 
weakness  —  as  artistic  theory  would  judge  it 
• —  of  novelists  like  George  Eliot  and  Thack- 


68  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

eray,  we  discover  one  of  the  chief  sources  of 
their  actual  power  over  the  reader. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  may  rightly 

Compensating   ,         .    .         ,   „  '  -   - 

advantages  of  be  claimed  tor  stage  representation 

the  stage.  ,  "     . 

that  it  compasses  certain  results 
that  are  out  of  the  reach  of  narrative  fiction. 
Perhaps  the  most  obvious  of  these  advan- 
tages is  the  assistance  which  stage  setting 
affords  to  the  imagination  of  the  spectator. 
Many  readers  lack  the  power  of  visualizing 
the  imaginary  scenes  depicted  by  the  novel- 
ist, and  hence  they  rarely  or  never  feel 
themselves  in  the  presence  of  real  persons  or 
surrounded  by  real  circumstances.  But  the 
modern  play-wright  is  so  varied  in  resource, 
so  fertile  in  mechanical  expedients,  that  he 
can  create  a  stage  setting  of  extraordinary 
verisimilitude  to  the  conditions  demanded 
by  the  particular  play.  A  feeble,  untrained, 
unpictorial  imagination  thus  finds  itself  as- 
sisted in  every  scene.  It  is  true  that  too 
much  help  may  often  be  given.  The  rude 
sign-posts,  "  Athens  "  or  "  Rome,"  hung  out 
upon  the  stage  of  the  Elizabethan  theatre,  as 
the  sole  indication  of  a  shift  of  scene,  doubt- 
less forced  the  audience  to  a  free,  playful 
exercise  of  fancy  which  put  them  in  accord 


FICTION  AND  THE  DRAMA  69 

with  the  dramatist's  mood.  They  met  him 
half-way,  and  agreeing  like  children  to  play 
a  game  with  conventional  symbols,  entered 
mto  it  perhaps  all  the  more  heartily  upon 
ihat  account,  just  as  imaginary  sugar  lumps, 
at  a  "  make-believe "  tea-party,  often  give 
more  pleasure  than  real  ones.  There  is  lit- 
tle doubt  that  the  over-elaborate  stage  setting 
of  the  present  day  sometimes  dulls  the  imagi- 
nation by  giving  it  no  exercise.  But  the 
theatrical  audience  is  a  strangely  composite 
one,  and  the  pictorial  imagination  of  many 
spectators  needs  all  the  help  that  can  be 
given  to  it.  In  the  realistic  setting  that 
represents  a  hotel  office,  a  steamboat  land- 
ing, a  telephone  exchange,  or  a  department 
store,  there  is  an  appeal  to  the  spectator's 
knowledge  and  sympathy,  a  gratification  of 
his  sense  of  recognition,  which  yield  notable 
satisfaction.  The  pleasure  afforded  by  the 
lavish  mounting  of  many  romantic  plays  is 
of  a  higher  type  aesthetically.  It  is  more 
useful,  too,  in  stimulating  the  imagination 
of  many  spectators  who  would  not  and  could 
not  respond  to  the  detailed  descriptions 
drawn  by  the  novelist.  In  this  assistance 
that  it  gives  to  the  imagination  of  the  tired 


70  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

or  uncultivated  spectator  the  theatre  bases 
one  of  its  most  unquestioned  claims  to  thf 
support  of  the  public. 
individual  Furthermore,    it    is    undeniable, 

moments.  fa^  fae  play_wright   is  able  to  em- 

phasize  individual  moments  of  action  with  a 
vividness  and  force  quite  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  novelist.  The  often-quoted  remark 
about  the  acting  of  Edmund  Kean,  that  it 
•was  like  "  reading  Shakespeare  by  flashes  of 
lightning,"  contains  a  truth  applicable  to 
many  varieties  of  dramatic  art.  Play-wright 
and  actor  have  it  in  their  power  to  stamp  a 
single  scene,  line,  attitude,  ineffaceably  upon 
the  memory.  The  "  curse  of  Rome "  in 
"  Richelieu,"  Mercutio's  "  a  plague  an  both 
your  houses,"  Lady  Macbeth's  talking  in  her 
sleep,  all  represent  legitimate  dramatic  ef- 
fects which  for  intensity,  direct  and  immedi- 
ate penetrating  power,  are  beyond  the  scope 
of  the  novelist. 

It  is  easy  to  multiply  these  il- 

Thedramati-  .  ,?' 

zationoi  lustrations  or  the  differences  in 
method  which  separate  the  art  of 
the  novelist  from  that  of  the  dramatist.  A 
more  practical  and  instructive  way  of  com- 
paring the  technique  of  the  two  arts,  how- 
ever, is  to  study  the  dramatization  of  novels. 


FICTION  AND  THE   DRAMA  72 

It  may  well  be  doubted  whether  the  recent 
popularity  of  such  dramatizations  has  been 
beneficial  either  to  the  stage  or  to  the  novel, 
but  it  is  easy  for  any  student  to  draw  useful 
comparisons  between  the  two  modes  of  pre- 
senting characters  in  action.  Let  him  read 
•'  Vanity  Fair,"  "  The  Scarlet  Letter,"  "  Dr. 
Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,"  "  The  Little  Minis- 
ter," "  The  Prisoner  of  Zenda,"  "  The  Chris- 
tian," or  "  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles,"  and 
watch,  carefully  and  repeatedly,  the  plays 
that  have  been  constructed  from  these  sto- 
ries. He  will  learn,  better  than  any  abstract 
analysis  can  possibly  teach  him,  the  inexor- 
able conditions  under  which  the  play-wright 
is  obliged  to  work,  and  the  inevitable  modi- 
fications which  the  play-wright  is  forced  to 
make  in  the  material  supplied  for  him  by  the 
novelist.  The  chief  lesson  to  be  learned  is 
this :  that  the  novel  and  the  play  are  not 
merely  two  different  modes  of  communicat- 
ing the  same  fact  or  truth.  It  is  rather  that 
the  different  modes  result  in  the  communi- 
cation of  a  different  fact.  It  is  impossi- 
ble that  Thackeray's  "  Vanity  Fair  "  should 
be  presented  upon  the  stage.  Thackeray's 
"  Vanity  Fair  "  is  a  complex  of  personal  im- 
pressions and  convictions  about  life,  trans- 


72  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

mitted  to  us  by  a  specific  art  of  which 
Thackeray  was  a  master.  A  dramatized 
"  Vanity  Fair  "  can  no  more  transmit  those 
impressions  than  a  novelized  "  Hamlet "  can 
give  us  Shakespeare's  "  Hamlet."  The  field 
of  the  dramatist,  in  a  word,  is  marked  off 
from  that  of  the  novelist  by  the  nature  of 
the  artistic  medium  which  each  man  em- 
ploys. Which  medium  is  better  depends 
wholly  upon  the  personality  and  the  train- 
ing of  the  artist,  and  the  nature  of  the  fact 
or  truth  he  wishes  to  convey  to  the  public. 
It  is  enough  for  our  present  purposes  to  re- 
mark that  the  two  media  differ  as  completely 
as  bronze  and  pigment,  or  marble  and  musi- 
cal tone,  and  that  the  success  of  any  artist 
depends  largely  upon  his  instinctive  or  ac- 
quired sense  of  the  possibilities  or  limitations 
of  the  material  he  chooses.  As  for  the 
dramatization  of  novels,  it  should  never  be 
forgotten  that  a  novel  is  typically  as  far 
removed  from  a  play  as  a  bird  is  from  a 
fish  ;  and  that  any  attempt  to  transform  one 
into  the  other  is  apt  to  result  in  a  sort  of 
flying-fish,  a  betwixt-and-between  thing,  — 
capable,  indeed,  of  both  swimming  and  fly- 
ing, but  good  at  neither. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FICTION    AND    SCIENCE 

'*  To  ascertain  and  communicate  facts  is  the  object  of  science  { 
to  quicken  our  life  into  a  higher  consciousness  through  the  feel, 
ings  is  the  function  of  art.  But  though  knowing  and  feeling  are 
not  identical,  and  a  fact  expressed  in  terms  of  feeling  affects  ua 
as  other  than  the  same  fact  expressed  in  terms  of  knowing,  yet 
our  emotions  rest  on  and  are  controlled  by  our  knowledge.  What- 
ever modifies  our  intellectual  conceptions  powerfully,  in  due  time 
affects  art  powerfully."  DOWDEN,  Studies  in  Literature. 

BOTH  the  scientist  and  the  artist 

Man  is 

are  constantly  dealing  with   man,  material  for 

J.  ,&.  '    the  scientist. 

and  yet  there  is  a  striking  contrast 
between  the  characteristic  ways  in  which  the 
scientist  and  the  artist  confront  their  human 
material.  The  scientist's  interest  in  the  hu- 
man organism  begins  long  before  the  dawn  of 
conscious  life  in  the  individual.  He  studies 
the  laws  of  heredity,  the  influence  of  race, 
family,  and  climate,  as  they  affect  the  physical 
and  mental  characteristics  of  the  new  human 
being.  He  follows  the  child's  bodily  growth 
and  intellectual  development  with  the  keen- 
est scrutiny,  finding  here  the  key  to  many 


74  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

puzzling  problems  relating  to  the  past  history 
and  the  future  welfare  of  the  race.  As  the 
child  matures  into  manhood  or  womanhood, 
every  physical  characteristic  or  social  relation 
of  the  individual  becomes  the  object  of  the 
scientist's  closest  study.  Experts  in  ethics 
and  economics,  in  sociology,  law,  govern- 
ment, in  short  in  all  the  departments  of  social 
and  political  science,  make  man  the  object 
of  their  investigations  and  theories.  Fur- 
thermore, all  the  sciences  dealing  primarily 
with  things  —  such  as  chemistry,  physics, 
astronomy,  geology  —  find  their  incentive 
and  their  ultimate  justification  in  the  assist- 
ance they  give  to  man  in  his  ceaseless  effort 
to  understand  himself  and  his  place  in  the 
universe.  In  a  word,  the  aim  of  the  scientist 
is  to  know  man  as  he  is,  in  all  his  relations. 
But  how  different  is  the  func- 

Manas 

material  for     tion  of  the  artist !     When  he  turns 

the  artist. 

to  the  human  being  in  search  of 
material  for  his  art,  his  chief  endeavor  is  to 
make  something  beautiful.  With  this  pur- 
pose the  sculptor  represents,  with  more  or 
less  fidelity  to  actual  fact,  the  outlines  of  the 
human  form.  The  painter  depicts  the  light 
reflected  from  the  human  face  and  figure. 


FICTION  AND  SCIENCE  75 

The  poet  translates  the  emotions  of  men  and 
women  into  conventional  forms  of  beauti- 
fully ordered  speech.  The  musician  em- 
bodies man's  inarticulate  desires,  his  vaguest 
dreams,  in  harmonies  of  sound.  All  these 
artistic  activities  imply  knowledge  of  men 
and  women  ;  but  it  is  obvious  that  knowledge 
is  not  with  the  artist,  as  it  is  with  the  scien- 
tist, an  end  in  itself.  It  is  only  one  element 
in  his  chief  task.  That  task  is  to  create 
some  beautiful  object.  It  is  necessary  to 
keep  this  fundamental  distinction  clearly  in 
mind  in  endeavoring  to  estimate  the  nature 
and  extent  of  the  influence  of  the  modern 
scientific  movement  upon  the  art  of  fiction. 
It  will  be  readily  recognized  that  Hotion  as 
fiction,  like  every  other  depart-  ^j^lai*7 
ment  of  human  activity,  has  not  80lence- 
escaped  the  impact  of  that  widespread  and 
deep  interest  in  physical  science  which  was 
one  of  the  most  marked  characteristics  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  The  influence  of  this 
movement  may  be  traced  in  almost  every 
field  of  literature.  The  constant  reference 
in  Tennyson's  later  poetry  to  the  doctrine  of 
evolution,  and  the  application  of  the  theory 
of  heredity  in  the  problem-plays  of  Ibsen, 


76  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

illustrate  the  scientific  cast  of  modern  litera- 
ture quite  as  effectively  as  George  Eliot's 
masterly  studies  in  environment,  or  the  sci- 
entific romances  of  M.  Jules  Verne  or  Mr. 
H.  G.  Wells.  But  it  has  happened  more  fre- 
quently in  fiction  than  in  other  departments 
of  literary  art  that  the  writer  has  set  himself 
deliberately  to  the  work  of  scientific  or 
pseudo-scientific  demonstration,  while  avail- 
ing himself  ostensibly  of  the  conventional 
devices  which  are  a  part  of  the  novelist's 
stock  in  trade.  The  most  famous,  and  upon 
the  whole  the  most  influential,  example  of 
fidelity  to  a  method  supposedly  scientific  has 
been  that  of  M.  Zola.  In  his  well  known 
essay  entitled  "  Le  Roman  Experimental,"  l 
he  has  explained  and  defended  the  methods 
which  he  has  endeavored  to  follow  in  compos- 
ing the  novels  of  the  Rougon-Macquart  series. 
The  thesis  of  the  essay  can  be  summed  up  in 
a  few  sentences. 

"LoHoman  ^'  ^°^a    Begins    ^J  Fating  Out 

Exptamen-     the  difference  between  a  science  of 

Ul." 

observation,  like  astronomy,  and  a 
science  based  upon  experiments,  like  chem- 

1  There  is  an  English  translation    by  8.  M.  Sherman. 
London  and  New  York:  Cassell,  1893. 


FICTION  AND  SCIENCE  77 

istry.  The  observer,  he  says,  is  only  the 
photographer  of  phenomena  ;  but  the  experi- 
menter can  alter  the  conditions,  and,  subject- 
ing phenomena  to  these  new  conditions,  can 
prove  or  disprove  some  hypothesis.  In  sim- 
ilar fashion  a  novelist  can  "  experiment " 
upon  a  character,  and  study  its  behavior 
under  the  particular  conditions  to  which  the 
novelist  chooses  to  subject  it.  Chemistry 
and  physics  have  now  become  exact  sciences. 
Physiology  and  psychology  are  likewise  sub- 
ject to  fixed  laws,  since  the  "  same  determin- 
ism governs  the  stone  in  the  road  and  the 
brain  of  man."  It  is  therefore  the  duty  of 
the  novelist  to  apply  the  methods  of  the  ex- 
act sciences  to  the  intellectual  and  emotional 
activities  of  mankind,  and  to  replace  the 
romances  of  pure  imagination  by  those  of 
observation  and  experiment.  Idealistic  writers 
have  had  quite  too  much  to  say  about  the 
unknown,  about  mysterious  forces  which 
elude  analysis.  A  writer  ought  to  base  his 
work  upon  positive  knowledge,  upon  the  ter- 
ritory already  conquered  by  science,  and  it  is 
only  when  he  reaches  the  end  of  this  terri- 
tory, and  is  confronted  with  the  unknown, 
that  he  is  free  to  exercise  his  intuition,  his 


T8  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

a  priori  ideals.  Metaphysics  must  give  place 
to  physiology.  "  No  doubt,"  says  M.  Zola 
in  closing,  "  the  wrath  of  Achilles  and  the 
love  of  Dido  will  remain  eternally  beauti- 
ful portraitures ;  but  it  is  our  duty  to 
analyze  wrath  and  love,  and  to  see  precisely 
how  these  passions  perform  their  function  in 
the  human  organism.  Ours  is  a  new  point 
of  view ;  it  becomes  experimental  rather  than 
philosophical.  In  a  word,  the  experimental 
method,  in  literature  as  in  science,  is  in  pro- 
cess of  determining  those  natural  phenomena, 
individual  and  social,  of  which  metaphysics 
has  given  hitherto  only  irrational  and  super- 
natural explanations." 

,_          Such,    in    brief   outline,  is   the 

The  weakness 

in  M.zoia's  argument  of  one  of  the  most  inter- 
argument. 

esting  and  famous  essays  ever  de- 
voted to  the  art  of  fiction.  The  weak  points 
in  Zola's  presentation  of  his  case  have 
been  indicated  by  M.  Brunetiere  and  many 
other  French  critics.  Passing  over  entirely 
Zola's  assumption  of  a  "  determinism " 
governing  all  phenomena,  —  an  assumption 
upon  which  his  whole  argument  rests,  and 
which  would  find  even  fewer  adherents 
among  men  of  science  to-day  than  it  did 


FICTION  AND  SCIENCE  79 

forty  years  ago,  —  there  are  at  least  two 
fatal  defects  in  his  logic.  The  first  is  that 
in  his  use  of  the  term  "  experiment  "  to  de- 
scribe the  novelist's  procedure  towards  his 
characters,  Zola  is  juggling  with  words.  No 
novelist  can  possibly  conduct  an  "  experi- 
ment "  with  persons  as  a  chemist  does  with 
acids,  or  a  physiologist  with  foods.  The  novel- 
ist is  either  an  "  observer  "  pure  and  simple  — 
as  far  as  his  nature  will  allow  —  or  else  he 
performs  a  purely  imaginary  "  experiment  " 
in  placing  his  personages  in  various  supposi- 
titious situations  and  telling  us  how  they  con- 
duct themselves.  In  other  words,  we  have 
to  accept  the  novelist's  statement  of  the 
behavior  of  certain  selected  persons,  in  cir- 
cumstances imagined  by  the  novelist  himself. 
The  "  experiment,"  described  with  such  so- 
lemnity, is  a  pure  bit  of  "  make-believe." 

And  secondly,  M.  Zola,  who  is  •«  A  priori 
a  slashing  and  resourceful  debater  ldeas-" 
rather  than  a  shrewd  one,  practically  gives 
away  his  case  when  he  admits  that  in  the 
presence  of  the  "  unknown  "  there  is  an  op- 
portunity for   one's   "  a   priori   ideas,"  for 
u  intuition,"  for  the  play  of  the  artist's  per- 
sonality.    Zola  and  his  opponents  differ  of 


80  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

course  as  to  the  extent  of  the  role  which  the 
unknown  plays  in  fiction ;  but  to  admit  its 
presence  at  all  is  a  serious  halt  in  the  tri- 
umphal march  of  his  theory.  What  is  still 
more  unfortunate  for  him,  —  since  literary 
theories  are  bound  to  depend,  at  last,  upon 
literary  practice,  —  in  M.  Zola's  own  novels 
there  is  a  more  astounding  exhibition  of  "  a 
priori  ideas,"  of  a  parti  pris,  of  deliberate 
ignoring  of  some  facts  and  imaginative  dis- 
tortion of  other  facts,  than  in  any  other 
romancer  of  his  time.  His  "  scientific " 
principle,  when  carried  into  practice  by  him- 
self, stands  revealed  as  grossly  unscientific, 
v  „  Whatever  M.  Zola's  personal  suc- 

The  effects 

oi  scientific     cess  as  a  debater  or  practitioner  in 

theory.  .  r 

the  field  of  fiction,  there  is  no  ques- 
tion as  to  the  reality  of  the  influence  of  the  sci- 
entific temper  upon  the  novelist's  art.  "  True 
it  is  that  modern  scientific  study  is  inductive, 
is  experimental,  is  based  upon  comparison  of 
experiences.  And  true  it  is  that  the  modern 
scientific  method  has  laid  a  heavy  hand  of  com- 
pulsion upon  the  modern  literary  worker."  l 
This  compulsion  has  varied  in  degree  at  dif« 

1  F.  H.  Stoddard,  The  Evolution  of  the  English  Nove\ 
p.  212.     New  York:  The  Macmillan  Company,  1900. 


FICTION  AND  SCIENCE  81 

ferent  periods,  but  it  may  be  traced  in  the 
English  novel  ever  since  the  seventeenth 
century.  "  The  works  of  the  lesser  writers 
of  the  seventeenth  century  show  the  rise  of 
a  new  spirit,  foreign  to  the  times  of  Shake- 
speare, —  a  spirit  of  observation,  of  attention 
to  detail,  of  stress  laid  upon  matter  of  fact, 
of  bold  analysis  of  feelings  and  free  argu- 
ment upon  institutions ;  the  microscope  of 
the  men  of  the  Restoration,  as  it  were,  laying 
bare  the  details  of  daily  objects,  and  super- 
seding the  telescope  of  the  Elizabethans  that 
brought  the  heavens  nearer  earth.  No  one 
word  will  finally  describe  it.  In  its  relation 
to  knowledge  it  is  the  spirit  of  science ;  to 
literature  it  is  the  spirit  of  criticism  ;  and 
science  and  criticism  in  England  are  the  cre- 
ations of  the  seventeenth  century."  1  The 
same  tendency  is  to  be  observed  in  the  fic- 
tion of  the  Continent,  where  it  dominated 
some  of  the  most  influential  novels  between 
1870  and  the  close  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. Although  few  novelists  would  now 
advocate  it  in  the  extreme  and  doctrinaire 
form  assumed  for  argumentative  purposes  by 

1  Walter  Raleigh,    The  English  Novel,   p.  111.     New 
York:  Scribner's. 


82  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

M.   Zola,  it  must  everywhere  be  reckoned 
with. 

what  fiction        ^  *s  no*  *°  ^e  ^[uestioned  that 
has  gained      fiction  has   grained,  in  more  than 

by  it.  .  .     &  . 

one    positive    quality,    from    this 
saturation  with  the  spirit   that  has  entered 
so  completely  into  the  consciousness  of  mod- 
ern society, 
in  range  of  For  one  thing,  it  has  wonderfully 

broadened  the  range  of  the  subject- 
matter  of  fiction.  Science  has  taught  us 
the  significance  of  all  facts.  A  thousand 
aspects  of  life  and  nature,  which  lay  wholly 
outside  the  field  of  vision  of  the  post-classical 
or  mediaeval  romance,  are  full  of  interest  and 
suggestiveness  to  the  modern  novel-writer. 
The  moment  that  the  writer  and  his  reader 
share  this  conviction  of  the  potential  signifi- 
cance of  objects  or  aspects  of  life  hitherto 
regarded  as  trivial  or  meaningless,  that  mo- 
ment the  scope  of  possible  subjects  has 
broadened  almost  endlessly.  To  compare 
the  field  within  which  a  mediaeval  romancer 
works  professionally  with  the  field  open  to 
Balzac,  Zola,  or  Tolstoi,  is  to  compare  the 
number  of  objects  visible  to  the  naked  eye 
with  those  visible  to  the  observer  possessed 
of  a  microscope. 


FICTION  AND  SCIENCE  83 

Within  this  vastly  widened  field  in  accuracy 
of  possible  material  the  individual  of  detau< 
details  have  heen  wrought  out  with  a  scru- 
pulous and  indeed  microscopic  care.  The 
exactness  of  observation  which  has  every- 
where resulted  from  the  cultivation  of  the 
physical  sciences  has  changed  the  very  tex- 
ture of  the  modern  novel.  Dialect  stories 
furnish  a  convenient  illustration.  No  novelist 
would  now  care  to  put  into  the  mouths  of 
negro  characters  the  unheard-of  sounds  that 
passed  for  negro  dialect  in  the  generation 
of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  Many  writers  of 
provincial  dialect  have  given  the  most  de- 
tailed and  painstaking  effort  to  the  study  of 
phonetics.  Compare  the  rustic  dialect  of 
Thomas  Hardy's  characters,  for  instance,  with 
that  spoken  by  Fielding's  rustics.  The  dif- 
ference is  due  to  a  century's  progress  in 
recording  impressions  with  scientific  pre- 
cision. 

Instantaneous  photography  has  Anewwt 
trained  the  eye  of  artist  and  pub-  ^efllng 
lie  alike.     To  take  the  most  famil- 
iar   example,    photography   has    taught    us 
that  a  running  horse  never  extends  all  foul 
legs  at  once,  in  the  way  in  which  artists  have 


84  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

been  wont  to  represent  him.  As  soon  aa 
the  photograph  has  unerringly  demonstrated 
what  is  the  actual  position  of  the  horse's 
legs,  the  eye  begins  to  analyze  and  readjust 
its  impressions  in  accordance  with  the  newly 
discovered  fact.  Frederic  Remington's  horses, 
drawn  after  the  revelations  of  instantaneous 
photography,  seem  real  to  our  generation ; 
the  galloping  horses  in  old  pictures  of  British 
hunting  fields  seem  strangely  unreal.  It  is 
thus  that  science  has  taught  us  accurate  and 
analytic  vision,  and  the  training  has  been 
instantly  reflected  in  every  form  of  art. 
Whether  a  heightened  beauty  has  always 
resulted  from  this  new  treatment  is  to  be 
doubted.  The  aesthetic  questions  involved 
are  subtle  and  far-reaching.  But  the  chief 
point  now  to  be  noted  is  that  our  generation 
has  been  taught  to  use  its  eyes  in  a  new  way. 
The  illustrated  papers,  for  example,  show  us, 
with  the  absolute  fidelity  of  the  camera,  the 
precise  image  of  an  athlete  breasting  the  tape 
at  the  end  of  a  hundred-yard  sprint.  Whether 
his  face  and  form  are  as  beautiful  as  we  im- 
agined, and  whether  the  artist  is  justified  in 
representing  him  as  he  appears  to  the  trained 
rather  than  to  the  untrained  observer,  are 


FICTION  AND  SCIENCE  85 

questions  in  which  we  have  for  the  present 
no  concern.  We  have  simply  to  note  and  re- 
member the  fact  that  artists  and  the  public 
are  learning  a  new  way  of  seeing  things ; 
that  in  exactness  of  observation,  in  analytic 
power,  and  in  the  power  to  generalize  from 
specific  examples,  the  art  of  fiction  has  learned 
a  great  deal  from  science. 

Since  fiction  deals  primarily  with  _ 

*  *  Particular 

man,  the  sciences  that  have  par-  sciences: 

7  \         physiology. 

ticularly  affected  the  art  of  fiction 
are  physiology  and  psychology.  An  un- 
doubted advantage  has  come  to  the  novelist 
through  the  wider  popular  knowledge  of  the 
physical  man.  The  conscious  realization  of 
the  dignity  and  beauty  of  the  human  body, 
reflected  from  so  many  departments  of  mod- 
ern literature,  has  been  nowhere  more  ap- 
parent than  in  fiction.  The  glorification 
of  "  muscular  Christianity  "  in  the  novels  of 
Charles  Kingsley  is  a  typical  example.  The 
praise  of  bodily  strength  and  endurance,  the 
frank  pride  in  virility  and  courage,  have 
scarcely  been  depicted  more  superbly  by  Walt 
Whitman  himself  than  by  the  story-writers 
of  our  time.  The  respect  for  the  body,  the 
value  set  upon  physical  training  and  outdoor 


86  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

sports,  rests  back  very  largely  upon  what  sc* 
ence  has  taught  us  regarding  the  importance 
of  these  things.  "  The  value  and  significance 
of  flesh,"  which  other  poets  besides  Brown- 
ing and  Rossetti  have  endeavored  to  make 
clear,  may  be  portrayed  mystically,  after  the 
manner  of  poets,  or  realistically  and  in  a 
manner  more  suited  to  prose ;  but  in  either 
case  the  science  of  physiology  reinforces  it, 
and  affirms  its  claims  to  recognition. 

Psychology  ^ne  Progress  °^  the  science  of 
psychology  has  unquestionably 
taught  many  novelists  a  better  understanding 
of  mental  processes.  Recent  literature  is  full 
of  examples  of  the  transference  of  psycho- 
logical theory  to  the  pages  of  fiction,  and 
though,  as  we  shall  notice  shortly,  this  has 
not  always  resulted  in  a  gain  for  fiction,  it 
has  given  to  the  work  of  some  writers  a  firm- 
ness and  precision  of  analysis  and  phrase 
which  would  otherwise  be  impossible.  One 
need  not  go  to  George  Eliot  and  Mrs.  Hum- 
phry Ward  for  examples.  The  admirable 
stories  of  Edith  Wharton  are  essentially  psy- 
chological both  in  theme  and  in  workmanship, 
In  passing  from  Professor  William  James's 
essays  on  psychology  to  Mr.  Henry  James's 


FICTION  AND   SCIENCE  87 

later  studies  in  fiction,  one  is  scarcely  con- 
scious of  a  change  in  the  writer's  attitude, 
though  in  clearness  and  workmanlike  Eng- 
lish the  advantage  frequently  lies  with  the 
real  critic  of  Mrs.  Piper  rather  than  with  the 
creator  of  the  imaginary  Maud-Evelyn.  Both 
pieces  of  work  are  studies  in  the  psychology 
of  spiritualism.  The  investigator  has  passed 
along  to  the  fiction  writer  an  almost  endless 
list  of  possible  material  for  stories,  —  mate- 
rial which  never  could  have  been  utilized  if 
it  had  not  been  for  the  professional  labor  of 
the  psychologist. 

Although  the  influence  of  the 
scientific    movement   has    resulted  harming 

*       .LI.  "L    *  *         i_    j-\-  L      fiction  :  con- 

in  these  obvious  gains,  both  as  to 


the  scope  and  as  to  the  technical 
methods  of  fiction,  it  is  also  pos- 
sible to  point  out  very  serious  disadvantages. 
The  chief  of  these  is  the  confusion  of  the 
distinction  between  science  and  art.  The 
late  W.  J.  Stillman,  an  accomplished  critic 
and  observer,  wrote  two  papers  on  "  The 
Decay  of  Art  "  and  «  The  Revival  of  Art,"  l 
in  which  he  argued  with  bitter  force  that  the 

1  Reprinted  in  The  Old  Rome  and  the  Neio  and  oiher  Es- 
says.    Boston:  Houghton  Miffiin  Couipauy,  1898. 


88  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

spirit  of  exact  inquiry,  the  fidelity  to  nature 
and  to  fact,  are  proving  fatal  to  true  artistic 
production.  "  The  shadow  of  science  is  the 
eclipse  of  art.  .  .  .  Photography  is  the  ab- 
solute negation  of  art.  .  .  .  The  nearer  to 
nature,  the  farther  from  art."  Such  are 
some  of  the  characteristic  sentences  in  his 
brilliant  attack  upon  that  naturalistic  temper 
which  just  now  is  to  be  met  on  every  hand. 
Mr.  Stillman  believed  that  the  glorification 
of  the  natural  sciences  leads  inevitably  to 
the  extinction  of  the  perception  of  the  beau- 
tiful, that  it  antagonizes  the  development  of 
aesthetic  feeling  on  the  part  of  the  public. 
Nature  should  be  the  servant,  not  the  master. 
The  "  fundamental  law  is  that  in  its  sphere 
art  is  supreme,  and  nature  only  its  bricks  and 
mortar.  So  long  as  we  confound  fidelity  to 
nature  with  excellence  in  art,  we  ignore  that 
law."  Many  careful  students  of  contempo- 
rary literature  will,  I  believe,  recognize  the 
validity  of  Mr.  Stillman's  criticism.  The 
immemorial  heresy  that  art  consists  in  imi- 
tation of  nature  has  received  strong,  sup- 
port from  a  generation  immensely  interested 
in  the  facts  of  nature. 


FICTION  AND  SCIENCE  89 

But  the  greater  the  interest  felt  BellttUng  Ol 
by  artist  and  public  in  the  facts,  in  tt«  imagina- 

•  r  tion. 

"  the  human  documents,"  the  nar- 
rower is  the  sphere  accorded  to  the  imagina- 
tion. If  a  careful  study  of  a  certain  new 
field  is  a  sufficient  equipment  for  a  novelist, 
why  may  not  any  patient  observer  turn  out 
a  masterpiece  ?  Mr.  Henry  James's  excel- 
lent advice  to  the  young  author,  "  You  can 
never  take  too  many  notes,"  has  been  under- 
stood in  so  literal  a  sense  that  note-taking 
seems  the  end  of  the  whole  matter.  "  I  have 
seventeen  hundred  pages  of  notes,"  M.  Zola 
is  reported  to  have  said  before  the  appearance 
of  his  novel  "  Lourdes."  "  My  book  is  fin- 
ished ;  all  that  I  have  to  do  is  to  write  it." 
But  books  made  after  such  a  fashion  usually 
afford  ample  warning  of  the  danger  of  crush- 
ing the  imagination  under  the  sheer  mass  and 
weight  of  fact.  If  the  human  imagination  can- 
not freely  master  its  material,  and  remould  fact 
in  accordance  with  the  demands  of  the  higher, 
the  spiritual  truth,  then  the  facts  may  prove 
worse  than  useless.  It  is  well  that  the  bee 
should  bear  honey  to  the  hive,  but  if  it  tries 
to  carry  too  much  honey,  it  cannot  use  its 
wings. 


90  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

Materialistic  There  are  other  special  disad- 
tendencies,  vantages  which  have  resulted  from 
the  scientific  depiction  of  physical  fact. 
There  has  been,  in  much  of  the  fiction  pro- 
duced under  the  immediate  influence  of  the 
scientific  spirit,  a  materialistic  tendency.  We 
have  already  noticed  the  philosophy  of  deter- 
minism that  underlies  the  argument  of  M. 
Zola's  famous  essay.  In  his  novels,  as  M. 
Brunetiere  and  other  critics  have  not  failed 
to  point  out,  there  is  constant  evidence  of 
the  stress  laid  upon  sensations  rather  than 
upon  emotions,  upon  the  hody  rather  than 
upon  the  mind.  This  preoccupation  with 
the  concerns  of  the  body  has  frequently  re- 
sulted in  grossness.  Fiction  has  spread  be- 
fore us  detailed  descriptions  of  the  human 
organism  influenced  by  alcoholism,  by  opium, 
by  many  nameless  forms  of  degeneracy  and 
decay,  and  the  tendency  has  been  too  often 
not  merely  towards  grossness,  but  towards 
positively  evil  suggestion.  Upon  this  point 
it  is  sufficient  to  quote  the  words  of  one  of 
the  most  learned  writers  on  aBsthetic  theory, 
Bernard  Bosanquet  :  "  The  three  anti-aes- 
thetic tendencies  of  art,  the  scientific,  the 


FICTION  AND  SCIENCE  91 

moralistic,  and  the  impure,  are  constantly 
found  in  union."  l 

Turning  from  the  depiction  of  A  mechanical 
physical  facts  to  the  analysis  of  ™oholw- 
psychological  processes,  one  may  assert  that 
the  extreme  impulse  given,  in  certain  schools 
of  modern  fiction,  to  the  scrutiny  of  mental 
states  has  resulted  in  a  mechanical  psycho- 
logy. The  men  and  women  of  these  stories 
are  mere  puppets.  The  authors  simply  pull 
the  wires,  and  the  puppets  dance  as  if  gal- 
vanized into  a  ghastly  semblance  of  life. 
The  fondness  for  morbid  states  of  mind  has 
kept  pace  with  the  unnatural  interest  in  mor- 
bid conditions  of  the  body.  Professor  Josiah 
Royce  wrote  not  many  years  ago  an  extremely 
acute  study  of  the  author  of  "  Pilgrim's  Pro- 
gress," entitled  "  The  Case  of  John  Bunyan." 
How  many  stories  of  Balzac  or  even  of 
Hawthorne  might  be  called  "  The  Case  of 

Mr. !  "    The  real  difficulty  arises  in  the 

temptation  of  the  artist  to  assume  that  air 
of  scientific  impartiality  which  in  reality  is 
nothing  other  than  unsympathetic.  From 
being  neutral,  dispassionate,  impartial,  how 
easy  to  become  pitiless  or  contemptuous! 

1  Bosanquet,  History  of  ^Esthetic,  p.  446. 


92  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

Nor  would  it  be  difficult  to  point  out  that  in 
the  excessive  development  of  the  psycholo- 
gical point  of  view,  there  is  a  tendency  toward 
over-cleverness  which  has  robbed  the  art  of 
fiction  of  its  simplicity  and  naturalness. 
There  are  many  pages  in  George  Meredith 
and  in  Henry  James  acute  beyond  belief, 
subtle  to  the  point  of  exciting  our  wondering 
admiration,  and  yet  certainly  oversubtle,  per- 
verse, and  in  the  end  pointless  and  ineffec- 
tive. It  is  true  enough  that  fiction,  like 
poetry,  may  normally  undertake  to  criticise 
life,  but  this  criticism  must  not  be  refined  to 
the  point  of  being  refined  away.  How  often 
it  fails  to  move  either  the  reader's  interest 
or  his  sympathy  !  It  transports  us  into  the 
laboratory,  the  dissecting  room,  the  study, 
but  it  fails  to  give  us  the  image  of  palpitat- 
ing, radiant  life. 

On  the  whole  it  is  difficult  to 
gained  or  strike  a  general  balance  and  say 
whether  fiction  has  gained  or  lost 
by  contact  with  science.  The  gains  and 
losses  seem  to  me  at  least  to  be  rather  evenly 
balanced.  We  are  too  close  as  yet  to  the 
body  of  fiction  produced  since  1870  to  be 
aware  of  all  its  Implications  and  indirect  con* 


FICTION  AND  SCIENCE  93 

sequences.  But  there  are  few  students  of 
the  history  of  fiction  who  will  be  inclined  to 
regret  that  the  scientific  experiment  has  been 
30  thoroughly  tried.  That  experiment  was 
sure  to  come.  Unquestionably  it  has  im- 
paired the  power  and  limited  the  imagination 
of  many  a  writer  in  our  own  time.  But  it 
has  also  taught  some  great  lessons  by  which 
our  novelists  of  the  future  may  profit  if  they 
will.  These  lessons  are  unmistakable,  and 
they  go  to  the  very  root  of  the  philosophy  of 
artistic  creation.  In  fiction,  more  clearly 
than  in  any  other  field  of  modern  literature, 
may  be  traced  the  impact  of  the  scientific 
method  upon  the  creative  imagination.  And 
these  lessons  will  remain,  however  wide  may 
be  the  sway  of  the  present  reaction  against 
the  scientific  method,  however  sudden  the 
recoil  into  the  field  of  mere  adventure  and 
romance.  It  should  not  be  forgotten,  also, 
that  the  developments  of  the  last  thirty 
years,  the  present  reaction  against  them,  and 
whatever  new  influences  the  future  may  have 
in  store,  are  powerless  to  affect  the  great  fic- 
tion produced  in  bygone  generations  under 
the  impulse  of  other  forces.  One  can  always 
go  back  to  Sir  Walter  if  one  will. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    CHARACTERS 

"  Nothing  that  Turgenieff  had  to  say  could  be  more  interest 
ing  than  his  talk  about  his  own  work,  his  manner  of  writing. 
What  I  have  heard  him  tell  of  these  things  was  worthy  of  the 
beautiful  results  he  produced ;  of  the  deep  purpose,  pervading 
them  all,  to  show  us  life  itself.  The  germ  of  a  story,  with  him, 
•was  never  an  affair  of  plot  —  that  was  the  last  thing  he  thought 
of :  it  was  the  representation  of  certain  persons.  The  first  form 
in  which  a  tale  appeared  to  him  was  as  the  figure  of  an  individ- 
ual, or  a  combination  of  individuals,  whom  he  wished  to  see  in 
action,  being  sure  that  such  people  must  do  something  very 
special  and  interesting.  They  stood  before  him  definite,  vivid, 
and  he  wished  to  know,  and  to  show,  as  much  as  possible  of 
their  nature.  The  first  thing  was  to  make  clear  to  himself  what 
he  did  know,  to  begin  with  ;  and  to  this  end,  he  wrote  out  a  sort 
of  biography  of  each  of  his  characters,  and  everything  that  they 
had  done  and  that  had  happened  to  them  up  to  the  opening  of 
the  story.  He  had  their  dossier,  as  the  French  say,  and  as  the 
police  has  of  that  of  every  conspicuous  criminal.  With  this  ma- 
terial in  his  hand  he  was  able  to  proceed  ;  the  story  all  lay  in 
the  question,  What  shall  I  make  them  do  ?  He  always  made 
them  do  things  that  showed  them  completely  ;  but,  as  he  said, 
the  defect  of  his  manner  and  the  reproach  that  was  made  him 
was  his  want  of  '  architecture,'  —  in  other  words,  of  composition. 
The  great  thing,  of  course,  is  to  have  architecture  as  well  as 
precious  material,  as  Walter  Scott  had  them,  as  Balzac  had 
them."  HENRY  JAMES,  Partial  Portraits. 

The  noveiiir •       WITH  this  chapter  we  reach  a 
new  phase  of  the  discussion.     We 


THE  CHARACTERS  95 

have  hitherto  been  studying  the  nature  of 
prose  fiction,  and  its  relation  to  other  forms 
of  literature  as  well  as  to  the  general  scientific 
movement  of  the  time.  We  have  now  to 
consider  the  materials  which  the  novelist 
uses.  The  present  chapter  and  the  two  fol- 
lowing ones  will  be  devoted  to  the  essential 
elements,  the  raw  material,  as  it  were,  of  the 
story-writer's  handicraft.  We  must  then 
trace  in  later  chapters  the  modification  of 
this  material  due  to  the  nature  of  the  indi- 
vidual novelist  and  to  those  literary  con- 
ventions and  traditions  which  he  shares  in 
common  with  his  generation. 

We  are  accustomed  to  say  of  any  character!, 
work   of   fiction    that   it  contains  Jjjj^11 
three  elements  of  potential  interest, 
namely,  the   characters,  the   plot,   and   the 
setting  or  background.     In  other  words,  a 
story-teller   shows   how  certain   persons   do 
certain  things  under  certain  circumstances, 
and  according  to  his  purpose  or  the  nature 
of   his  particular  book  he   emphasizes   one 
or  the  other  or  possibly  all  three  of  these 
elements  that  are  calculated  to  excite  and 
satisfy  the  curiosity  of  the  reader. 


96  A   STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 


Thecharao-  us  take,  then,  the  first  of 

ters  alone.  these  three  elements  and  note  the 
various  methods  in  which  story-writers  have 
dealt  with  their  characters.  Where  do  they 
find  them  ?  How  do  they  manage  to  make 
the  characters  clear  to  the  readers  of  the 
book  ?  These  questions  must  be  answered 
before  we  attempt  to  trace  the  relation  of 
the  characters  to  the  plot,  or  the  relation  of 
both  characters  and  plot  to  those  enveloping 
circumstances  and  events  which  for  conven- 
ience we  have  agreed  to  call  the  setting  of 
the  story. 
_  „  .,  First,  then,  from  what  sources 

The  novelist's 

observation,  does  the  novelist  draw  his  charac- 
ters? Either  he  observes  them  directly  in 
the  actual  world,  or  hears  or  reads  about 
them  and  thus  appropriates  the  experience 
of  other  persons,  or,  finally,  he  may  imagine 
his  characters.  As  far  as  direct  observation 
of  character  is  concerned,  it  is  obvious  that 
any  man's  experience  with  various  types  or 
specimens  of  human  character  is  necessarily 
limited,  although  the  difference  between  va- 
rious novelists  in  this  regard  must  be  singu- 
larly great.  If  one  compares  the  variety  of 
human  types  that  fell  under  the  eye  of  Field- 


THE  CHARACTERS  97 

ing  with  the  types  with  which  Richardson 
was  personally  acquainted,  the  advantage 
would  certainly  lie  on  Fielding's  side.  Sir 
Walter  Scott  would  certainly  be  at  a  disad- 
vantage as  compared  with  Mr.  Kipling.  Yet 
these  illustrations  will  suggest  the  fact  that 
a  wide  acquaintance  with  the  different  forms 
of  human  nature  is  by  no  means  essential  to 
the  highest  achievement  in  character-draw- 
ing. Novelists  like  Hawthorne  and  Charlotte 
Bronte,  with  the  very  narrowest  experience 
and  personal  acquaintance,  have  often  been 
able  to  observe  and  portray  personal  charac- 
teristics in  a  fashion  that  puts  the  ordinary 
globe-trotter  to  shame.  The  commercial 
traveler's  superficial  acquaintance  with  many 
men  and  many  cities,  affording  as  it  does 
countless  opportunities  for  the  observation  of 
varied  traits  of  human  character  and  action, 
may  not  after  all  be  so  valuable  an  equip- 
ment for  story-writing  as  the  limited  and 
sustained  and  profound  observation  of  some 
country  minister  who  has  watched  men  and 
women  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave. 

But  a  great  deal  of  the  material  ^ai^ot 
of  the  novelist  comes  to  him  from  taxowled*t- 
what  he  hears  in  his  conversation  with  others 


98  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

or  reads  in  books.  The  latter  source  of  in- 
formation is  of  course  of  peculiar  value  to 
those  story-writers  who  have  occupied  them- 
selves primarily  with  history.  Dr.  Conan 
Doyle  has  remarked  that  before  he  wrote 
"  The  White  Company  "  he  read  three  hun- 
dred books  dealing  with  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury, and  the  number  of  volumes  read  by 
George  Eliot  in  preparation  for  writing 
"  Romola  "  and  "  Daniel  Deronda  "  is  said 
to  have  been  far  greater  than  this. 

..  Yet  it  is  clear  that  few  novelists 

"Invention" 

and  imagina-  of  high  rank  ever  transfer  directly 
to  their  pages  the  material  which 
has  reached  them  at  second-hand  through 
conversation  or  through  books.  Nor  is  it  so 
common  as  we  suppose  to  transfer  directly  to 
the  pages  of  the  story  the  material  furnished 
by  the  writer's  own  observation.  In  propor- 
tion as  he  is  a  genuine  artist  his  imagination 
plays  an  increasing  role  in  remoulding  memo- 
ries of  objects  or  persons.  We  may  be  sure 
that  the  novelist  usually,  if  not  always,  desires 
something  a  trifle  different  from  what  he  has 
actually  seen  or  read.  The  basis  of  his  char- 
acter-drawing will  always  rest  to  a  certain 
extent  upon  self-knowledge,  upon  his  power 


THE  CHARACTERS  99 

to  place  himself  in  the  imaginary  person's 
situation  and  to  determine  the  acts  of  the 
imaginary  person  by  what  the  author  fancies 
that  he  himself  would  do  under  those  circum- 
stances. The  limitations  in  the  range  of 
character-drawing  are  not  all  to  be  found, 
therefore,  in  the  necessarily  restricted  spheres 
of  direct  observation  and  second-hand  know- 
ledge. A  man's  comprehension  of  the  possi- 
bilities of  human  nature  is  also  limited  by  his 
knowledge  of  his  own  nature. 

With  these  different  types  of 
character  in  his  mind,  ready  to  be 
portrayed,  what  is  the  attitude  of  chaiacter»- 
the  writer  towards  his  characters?  Some- 
times he  seems  to  gaze  upward  at  them  in 
frank  admiration  of  their  beauty  and  virtue. 
Scott's  attitude  towards  his  young  lady  hero- 
ines, as  has  been  frequently  pointed  out,  is 
one  of  undisguised  worship.  And  many  an- 
other romantic  novelist  has  allowed  himself 
to  drop  on  his  knees  and  fold  his  hands  and 
look  up  at  his  heroines  until  he  quite  forgets 
to  draw  them.  Conversely,  there  are  abun- 
dant examples  in  French  fiction  —  the  work 
of  Flaubert  and  Maupassant  affording  con- 
stant instance*  —  of  the  author's  looking 


100  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

down  upon  his  characters  in  an  attitude  not 
merely  of  detachment  but  of  apparent  hos- 
tility. Flaubert  regards  the  struggles  of  his 
most  famous  heroine  much  as  a  biologist 
studies  the  nerve  reactions  of  some  insect 
pinned  to  his  table  for  the  purposes  of  ex- 
periment. 

Friendly  in-  There  is,  however,  a  happier 
terpretation.  mean  between  these  two  extremes ; 

namely,  when  the  author  seems  to  stand  on 
a  level  with  his  characters,  looking  them 
frankly  in  the  eyes,  reading  each  weakness 
clear,  but  studying  them  as  it  were  with  the 
level  gaze  of  friendship.  Every  novelist  has 
his  favorite  characters  ;  that  is,  personages 
whom  he  draws  with  exceptional  sympathy 
and  fullness  of  detail,  into  whose  mouths  he 
may  put  his  own  sentiments,  whose  hearts 
seem  to  throb  in  unison  with  his  own.  Very 
often  the  novelist  betrays  in  this  way  his  un- 
conscious sympathies.  M.  Brunetiere  many 
years  ago,  in  a  brilliant  essay  entitled  "  Le 
personnage  sympatique  dans  la  Litterature,"  * 
claimed  that  Shakespeare's  Falstaff  and  Ham- 
let were  examples  of  this  kind  of  uncon- 
scious revelation  of  the  more  profound  and 

1  Revue  des  deux  Mondes,  Oct.  15, 1882. 


THE  CHARACTERS  101 

instinctive  traits  of  the  writer  himself.  It 
is  likewise  easy  to  believe,  to  take  an  even 
more  familiar  example,  that  Milton  was  un- 
aware of  the  fact  that  he  was  making  Satan 
the  hero  of  "  Paradise  Lost." 

Moral  sympathy  is  necessary  if  Moraisym. 
the  work  in  question  is  to  exhibit  pathy' 
any  moral  perspective.  The  artist's  delinea- 
tion should,  of  course,  be  impartial,  and  it 
is  better,  in  the  great  majority  of  cases  cer- 
tainly, that  his  sympathy  should  be  im- 
plicitly rather  than  explicitly  expressed.  But 
the  sympathy  should  be  there.  The  writer 
of  great  fiction  not  only  recognizes  the 
difference  between  good  and  evil,  but  he 
does  not  allow  himself  to  speak  of  good  and 
evil  in  the  same  tones.  To  quote  Tolstoi  on 
Maupassant,  — 

"  I  remember  a  celebrated  painter  once  showing  me 
%  a  picture  of  his  which  represented  a  religious  proces- 
sion. It  was  wonderfully  painted,  but  there  was  no 
indication  of  the  artist's  relation  to  his  subject. 

" '  Well,  now,  do  you  consider  these  ceremonies  to  be 
good,  and  that  one  ought  to  take  part  in  them  or  no  ? ' 
I  inquired. 

"  The  artist,  with  a  show  of  condescension  to  my  sim- 
plicity, explained  that  he  knew  nothing  about  that, 
and  thought  he  had  no  need  to  know.  His  business 
vras  to  depict  life. 


102  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

" '  But,  any  way,  you  sympathize  with  all  this  ? ' 

" '  I  cannot  say  so.' 

"  *  Well,  do  you  dislike  these  ceremonies  ? ' 

"  '  Neither  the  one  or  the  other,'  replied  this  modern, 
highly  educated  artist,  with  a  smile  of  compassion  at 
my  stupidity.  He  represented  life,  without  under- 
standing its  meaning,  and  unmoved  by  its  aspect  to 
love  or  dislike.  So  it  was,  one  regrets  to  say,  with 
Maupassant." 

With  this  material  for  character- 
Methods  Of  .  I'll 

delineating      drawing  ready  to  his   hand,  and 

character:  .  .        .  .  .. 

direct  por-  with  these  conscious  and  uncon- 
scious sympathies  and  antipathies 
to  guide  him  in  his  work,  how  are  his  char- 
acters to  be  delineated  ?  It  is  usual  in  com- 
menting upon  the  task  of  the  play-wright 
to  make  a  distinction  between  direct  and  in- 
direct methods  of  character  portrayal.  The 
same  distinction  holds  good  in  fiction.  The 
novelist  must  often  content  himself  with  ex- 
hibiting without  comment,  except  so  far  as 
the  requisite  physical  description  is  con- 
cerned, the  personal  appearance  of  his  char- 
acters. He  narrates  their  actions,  reports 
their  words,  or  by  one  of  the  immemorial 
conventions  of  the  story-teller's  craft,  he 
tells  us  what  is  lurking  in  their  thoughts. 


THE  CHARACTERS  103 

But  this  direct  delineation  is  by 


no  means  so  frequent  as  that  kind  oommeilt- 
of  character-drawing  which  is  accompanied 
with  some  sort  of  comment  designed  to 
interpret  and  enforce  some  of  the  features 
of  the  story.  Sometimes  the  author  himself, 
as  so  frequently  in  the  novels  of  Thackeray 
and  George  Eliot,  takes  the  stage  and  ex- 
plains or  moralizes  upon  the  behavior  of  his 
personages.  Very  often  there  are  characters 
or  groups  of  characters  performing  some- 
thing of  the  function  of  the  ancient  Greek 
chorus  in  interpreting  to  the  reader  the  bear- 
ing, the  moral  results,  of  the  act  which  is  tak- 
ing place.  It  frequently  happens  that  this 
character  is  the  "  sympathetic  personage  " 
whom  M.  Brunetiere  has  described  ;  that  is, 
the  character  in  deepest  accord  with  the  fun- 
damental nature  of  the  author  himself.  But 
it  by  no  means  happens  that  this  interpreting 
personage  is  invariably  the  leading  character 
of  the  story.  More  often  it  is  one  of  the 
minor  characters  who  from  time  to  time  by 
indirect  comment  reveals  to  the  reader  the 
essential  nature  of  ah1  that  is  happening. 

What  is  called  in  the  case  of  the 
playwright  indirect  delineation  of 


104  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

character  has  also  its  correspondence  in  fic« 
tion.  "  I  am  no  longer  beautiful,"  said  a 
famous  French  woman ;  "  the  sweepers  no 
longer  turn  to  look  when  I  cross  the  street!" 
Something  of  the  same  effect  is  secured  in 
the  chapters  of  a  story  as  upon  the  stage,  by 
describing  not  the  hero  and  the  heroine,  but 
the  effect  produced  by  them  upon  the  other 
personages.  Some  of  the  most  masterly 
touches  in  the  closing  chapters  of  "  Vanity 
Fair "  are  devoted  to  the  portrayal  of  the 
social  and  moral  position  of  Rebecca  Sharp, 
but  Thackeray  does  not  venture  upon  this 
directly.  He  simply  shows  how  she  is  treated 
by  the  inhabitants  of  the  little  town  of  Pum- 
pernickel. In  the  stage  version  of  "  Vanity 
Fair  "  these  scenes  are  brought  sharply  home 
to  the  consciousness  of  many  spectators  who 
probably  missed  the  point  of  Thackeray's 
delicate  insinuations  in  the  text  of  the  story. 
The  more  subtle,  the  more  psychological  the 
particular  work  of  fiction  happens  to  be,  the 
greater  become  the  possibilities  of  this  indi- 
rect method  of  character-delineation.  Haw- 
thorne's most  effective  descriptions  of  Judge 
Pyncheon  in  "  The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables  "  are  not  the  passages  where  he  de- 


THE  CHARACTERS  105 

scribes  the  judge  directly,  extraordinarily 
vivid  as  these  are ;  they  are  rather  in  those 
paragraphs  where  the  effects  produced  by 
Judge  Pyncheon's  personality  upon  the  trans- 
parent nature  of  Phoebe  are  made  clear  to  the 
reader. 

The    illustration    just    USed    SUg-    characters  ai 

gests  a  new  distinction  which  we  deUneated- 
must  draw ;  namely,  the  difference  between 
the  characters  as  delineated.  Let  us  imagine 
that  the  personages  of  the  story,  whether 
drawn  directly  or  indirectly,  whether  pre- 
sented with  or  without  comment,  now  stand 
before  us.  Let  us  suppose  ourselves  to  look 
at  them  as  quietly  and  completely  as  we 
should  observe  actors  upon  the  stage.  What 
is  the  most  obvious  difference  between  these 
people  whom  the  novelist  has  drawn  for  us  ? 

One  obvious  distinction  is  that  simple  and 
between  simple  and  complex  char-  complex- 
acters.    Phoebe,  in  "  The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables,"  is  a  deliciously  simple  character,  a 
nature  of  such  flawless  purity  that  it  seems 
possible  to  comprehend  her  at  a  glance.    She 
belongs  to  Goethe's  Gretchen  type,  the  sort 
of  girl  he  loved,  in  his  plays,  to  place  in 
dramatic  contrast  with  accomplished  women 


106  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

of  the  world.  Sir  Walter  Scott's  fighting 
men  are  similar  examples  of  perfectly  simple 
characters.  One  understands  them  at  a 
glance,  and  however  much  one  loves  or  hates 
them  upon  deeper  acquaintance,  they  never 
confuse  or  delude  the  reader.  A  single 
fibre  makes  up  the  texture  of  their  natures. 
Dominant  But  ^ar  more  commonly  the  per- 

tealts'  sonages  in  the  novel  are  complex. 

Very  often  they  have  one  trait  which  pre- 
dominates over  their  others,  —  as  selfishness 
is  the  dominant  motive  in  Becky  Sharp,  and 
love  for  her  husband  the  dominant  motive  of 
Fielding's  Amelia.  Sometimes  it  is  difficult 
to  say  of  these  complex  characters  what  the 
strongest  element  in  their  natures  will  prove 
to  be.  In  "  The  Marble  Faun  "  much  of  the 
fascination  of  Miriam's  character,  especially 
when  thrown  into  contrast  with  Hilda's,  turns 
upon  the  extremely  complex  traits  out  of  which 
the  character  is  woven.  The  same  is  true  of 
Gwendolen  in  "  Daniel  Deronda,"  as  com- 
pared with  Dinah  Morris  in  "  Adam  Bede." 
stationary  Another  distinction  which  plays 

fngcta7ac-~    a  constantly  increasing  role  in  mod- 
ern fiction  is  that  between  the  sta- 
tionary and  the  developing  characters.     Cer- 


THE  CHARACTERS  107 

tain  personages,  and  these  not  the  least  in- 
teresting and  congenial  to  the  reader,  remain, 
like  Horatio  in  the  play,  constant  quantities 
to  the  last.  The  vicissitudes  of  the  action 
do  not  affect  them.  One  is  conscious  that 
whatever  happens  they  will  remain  to  the 
end  precisely  what  they  were  in  the  begin- 
ning, harmonious,  evenly  balanced  characters, 
from  whose  natures  the  waves  of  worldly  cir- 
cumstance and  trial  are  thrown  back  spent 
and  baffled.  In  the  novel  of  adventure,  and 
particularly  in  those  of  the  picaresque  type, 
there  is  little  attempt  at  any  portrayal  of  char- 
acter development.  The  pawn,  the  bishop, 
the  knight,  remain  to  the  end  of  the  game 
the  same  as  in  the  beginning.  Mere  pieces 
on  a  chess  board,  they  do  not  change  their 
nature  with  the  progress  of  the  story.  It  is 
generally  true  of  the  minor  characters  in  the 
fiction  of  the  present  day  that  the  closing 
chapters  reveal  them  exactly  as  they  were  in 
the  beginning.  They  are  like  trees  upon  the 
bank  of  a  river,  by  means  of  which  one  may 
measure  the  swiftness  of  the  stream  itself. 
But  the  main  characters  of  the  story  may  be 
likened  without  exaggeration  to  the  river 
itself,  constantly  altering  its  course,  accelerate 


108  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

ing  or  retarding  its  current,  and  never  quite 
the  same  from  one  moment  to  another.  This 
development  of  personality  in  the  characters 
of  the  novelist  is  one  of  the  most  subtle  and 
powerful  modes  of  affecting  the  sympathy 
and  interest  of  the  reader.  Let  us  note 
some  of  the  ways  in  which  this  development 
is  accomplished. 

In  fiction,  as  in  life,  growth  is 

Straggle:  oon-  IP  T» 

soious  and      usually  the  result  or  struggle.    But 

unconscious.       ,  .  .  . 

the  struggle  may  be  conscious  or 
unconscious,  and  may  end  in  victory  or  in 
defeat.  There  is  something  very  fine  about 
the  wholly  unconscious  fashion  in  which 
Scott's  characters  perform  their  role  in  the 
human  comedy.  There  is  little  self-examina- 
tion, no  morbid  analysis  of  motives.  Most 
of  his  finest  personages  are  of  the  true 
Horatio  breed.  They  behave  as  if  the  par- 
ticular things  they  do  were  the  only  things 
possible  for  them  to  do  and  they  were  not 
to  trouble  themselves  about  either  the  acts 
or  their  consequences.  The  same  is  true  of 
many  of  the  most  attractive  personages  of 
Dickens,  Kingsley,  and  George  Meredith, 
struggle  end-  George  Eliot's  novels,  on  the 

Ing  In  viotory  n 

other  hand,  are  full  of  examples  of 


THE  CHARACTERS  109 

conscious  moral  struggle.  The  men  and 
women  whom  she  depicts  most  fully  are 
constantly  analyzing  their  motives  or  strug- 
gling forward  towards  some  goal.  In  the 
cases  of  Adam  Bede  and  Daniel  Deronda  the 
conscious  moral  efforts  are  successful.  These 
characters  accomplish  the  aim  which  they 
have  established  for  themselves.  The  same 
may  be  said  for  Henry  Esmond,  and  for 
Lord  Kew  in  "  The  Newcomes."  Few  of 
Thackeray's  characters  torture  themselves  in 
self-analysis,  in  conscious  moral  questioning, 
and  yet  the  struggles  of  Esmond  and  of  Lord 
Kew  are  no  less  real  on  that  account  and  no 
less  representative  of  human  nature. 
Some  of  the  most  famous  ex- 

i  »        -i  ,          .  .       Deterioration. 

amples  or  character -drawing  in 
modern  fiction  represent,  however,  not  moral 
victory  but  defeat.  To  watch  a  character 
deteriorate,  no  matter  how  strongly  it  battles 
against  adversity  of  circumstance  or  inherent 
weakness  of  nature,  imparts  to  fiction  the 
tragedy  of  actual  life.  Lydgate  in  "  Middle- 
march  "  is  a  familiar  example  of  this  deterio 
ration ;  so  is  Anna  Karenina  in  Tolstoi's 
novel,  and  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles  in  the 
novel  by  Thomas  Hardy.  Both  Thackeray 


I 

110  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

and  George  Eliot  have  given  us  masterly 
examples  of  character  gradually  deteriorat- 
ing without  any  real  effort  to  lift  itself  above 
the  stream  of  circumstance.  Tito  Melema  in 
"  Romola  "  and  Lord  Mohun  in  "  Henry 
Esmond,"  like  Bartley  Hubbard  in  Mr. 
Howells's  "  Modern  Instance,"  steadily  drift 
from  bad  to  worse,  and  their  downward  pro- 
gress is  indicated  with  a  precision,  a  truth, 
and  a  moral  observation  which  make  a  pro- 
found impression  upon  the  reader. 

Very  often,  however,  the  char- 

Development  *  . 

under  special  acters  or  tiction  are  portrayed  to  us 

Influences.  i         i       •  11 

as  developing  not  so  much  under 
the  stress  of  conflict,  but  under  the  influence 
of  such  forces  as  prosperity,  as  in  "  John 
Halifax,  Gentleman,"  or  adversity,  as  in 
"  Silas  Lapham  "  and  "  Silas  Marner."  Or 
we  watch  the  character  alter  as  it  approaches 
old  age,  as  with  Colonel  Newcome,  or  submit 
to  the  force  of  a  stronger  personality,  as  in 
"  Richard  Feverel."  We  see  it  acting  under 
the  influence  of  religious  impulse,  as  with 
Dinah  Morris  and  David  Grieve.  We  are 
asked  to  study  the  effect  upon  it  of  some 
theory  of  art  or  philosophy,  as  in  Pater's 
^  Imaginary  Portraits  "  and  Voltaire's  "  Can- 


THE  CHARACTERS  111 

dide."  In  all  these  ways  it  will  be  observed 
that  the  author  of  fiction  has  endeavored  to 
hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature,  to  make  his 
book  reflect  something  of  the  actuality  of 
moral  experience  which  is  the  condition  of 
the  growth  or  the  retrogression  in  the  lives 
of  real  men  or  women. 

However  real  the  fictitious  per-  character- 
sonality  may  seem  to  the  writer,  he  lstlc  tralts' 
must  depend  upon  certain  artistic  devices  for 
making  the  characteristic  traits  of  his  person- 
age seem  real  to  the  reader.  It  was  the  cus- 
tom of  Scott  to  devote  a  page  or  two  of 
personal  description  to  each  character  at  the 
time  of  its  first  introduction  into  the  story. 
After  this  preliminary  description  of  the  per- 
sonal appearance  and  costume  of  the  charac- 
ter, Scott  seemed  to  trouble  his  head  no  more 
about  the  matter.  The  personage  was  sup- 
posed to  be  portrayed  once  for  all,  and  to  be 
visualized  by  the  reader  in  the  terms  of  that 
presentation.  It  is  more  common,  however, 
to  find  these  characterizing  details,  whether 
of  outward  appearance  or  of  inner  nature, 
presented  gradually  to  the  reader.  Some- 
times the  characteristic  trait  in  fiction  corre- 
sponds closely  to  the  "  gag  "  upon  the  stage, 


112  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

that  is,  a  trick  of  speech  or  action  obviously 
used  to  identify  the  character.  We  grow 
familiar  in  "Romola"  with  Tessa's  "baby 
face."  Mr.  Brooke  in  "  Middlemarch "  is 
forever  saying,  "  I  went  into  that  a  good 
deal  at  one  time."  In  "  David  Copperfield  " 
Barkis  is  always  "  willinV  These  repeated 
idiosyncrasies  of  talk,  or  face,  or  dress,  or 
manner  undoubtedly  help  to  accentuate  the 
individuality  of  the  character,  but  if  too  ex- 
clusive reliance  is  placed  upon  them  it  is  easy 
to  turn  them,  whether  in  a  book  or  upon  the 
stage,  into  caricatures. 

professional  ^  ™  extremely  interesting  to 
***"*•  notice  the  delicate  and  sure  touches 

with  which  masters  of  imaginative  fiction 
have  portrayed  the  characteristics  of  the  va- 
rious professions  and  occupations.  In  the 
Prologue  to  the  "  Canterbury  Tales,"  for 
instance,  one  never  wearies  of  admiring  the 
simplicity  of  the  soldier,  the  awkwardness  of 
the  sailor  on  horseback,  the  lawyer  who  seemed 
busier  than  he  was,  the  doctor  who  had  studied 
but  little  of  the  Bible,  the  merchant  whose 
talk  was  of  money-making. 

Class  characteristics  are  also  in< 

mass  traits. 

teresting  to  observe.     In  an  Eng- 


THE  CHARACTERS  113 

lish  or  Continental  novel  one  is  constantly 
called  upon  to  take  account  of  certain  recog- 
nized class  distinctions,  upon  which  many  of 
the  relations  of  the  characters  are  instantly 
seen  to  turn.  "  A  bourgeois  interior  "  has  a 
distinct  connotation  in  a  French  or  German 
novel ;  but  to  describe  a  similar  American 
interior  the  word  bourgeois  would  not  suffice. 
The  cash  basis  of  classification  of  American 
society,  —  so  far  as  it  prevails,  —  while  it 
frequently  piques  or  rewards  the  professional 
interest  of  the  literary  artist,  requires  far 
more  labor  on  his  part  than  if  he  were  to 
describe  the  upper,  the  middle,  or  the  lower 
classes,  removed  from  one  another  by  the 
almost  impassable  barrier  fixed  by  centuries 
of  social  tradition. 

It  is  also  interesting  to  note  that  Re  resenta. 
individuals    in    fiction    frequently  u™80* 

*  »     certain  roles. 

take  on  certain  typical  traits  due 
to  the  particular  role  which  the  individual  is 
to  play  in  the  story.  The  debutante,  the 
dowager,  the  "  woman  thirty  years  old,"  the 
"  woman  misunderstood,"  have  a  distinct 
function  in  certain  stories,  and  this  function 
affects  more  or  less  directly  the  behavior  of 
the  individuals  who  have  been  cast  for  that 


114  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

particular  role.  The  same  is  true  of  the 
persons  who  represent  moral  failures  and 
triumphs.  The  drunkard,  the  gambler,  the 
miser,  the  philanthropist,  have,  as  types,  cer- 
tain easily  recognized  traits,  and  these  typi- 
cal characteristics  are  not  to  be  left  out  of 
account  in  studying  the  character-drawing 
of  the  persons  to  whom  these  traits  belong. 
The  same  is  true  of  those  personages  to  whom 
are  assigned  definite  roles  in  the  plot  of  the 
story.  The  villain,  the  lover,  the  intriguer, 
the  heroine,  are  parts  suggesting  definite 
lines  of  character-drawing,  and  it  is  impos- 
sible to  construct  an  individual  character  in 
fiction  without  regard  to  the  conventional 
requirements  of  the  role  which  the  person  is 
asked  to  play. 

Furthermore,   there  are   typical 

National  and  .  7      .  • 

sectional        national  traits  which  are  always  to 

traits.  .  ,    .          -IT- 

be  noted  in  addition  to  those  lines 
of  difference  which  we  have  just  discussed. 
The  Italian,  the  Frenchman,  the  Englishman, 
when  introduced  into  a  novel,  must  show  to 
a  greater  or  less  extent  the  typical  behavior 
of  the  Italian,  the  Frenchman,  or  the  Eng- 
lishman. In  depicting  national  characteris- 
tics, sectional  traits,  too,  play  an  important 


THE  CHARACTERS  115 

part.  In  introducing  an  American  into  a 
story  few  novelists  are  willing  to  satisfy 
themselves  by  representing  such  a  "  typical 
American "  as  is  presented  upon  the  Paris 
or  London  stage.  The  novelist  with  a  fine 
sense  of  precision  in  character-drawing  would 
certainly  wish  to  note  those  characteristics 
that  distinguish  the  Southerner  from  the 
Northerner,  the  Hoosier  from  the  Calif ornian 
or  the  Texan.  Even  within  the  boundaries 
of  a  single  section,  as  the  history  of  New 
England  fiction  so  abundantly  illustrates, 
there  is  an  immense  variety  of  different 
types. 

It  becomes  essential,  therefore, 

7  .  '   The  Individ- 

that  we  should  distinguish  closely  uaiandtne 
between  the  individual  and  the 
type.  What  is  really  meant  by  these  two 
words  ?  And  which  should  the  artist  aim  to 
delineate  ?  We  say  in  actual  life  that  men 
like  Samuel  Johnson  or  Abraham  Lincoln  pos- 
sess individuality,  —  that  is,  that  they  have 
certain  sharply  defined  personal  characteris- 
tics which  readily  and  absolutely  separate 
them  from  all  other  individuals  in  the  world. 
In  fiction,  persons  like  Becky  Sharp  and 
Colonel  Newcome  have  precisely  this  same 


116  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

individual  characterization,  and  cannot  for 
a  moment  be  confused  with  other  persons 
in  other  stories.  As  compared  with  these 
examples  of  individuals  what  do  we  mean 
by  a  type?  The  dictionaries  suggest  two 
lines  of  definition,  both  of  which  are  of  use 
to  the  student  of  fiction.  According  to  the 
first,  type  means  an  ideal  representation  of 
a  species  or  group,  combining  its  essential 
characteristics.  It  is  this  sense  of  the  word 
which  dictionary  makers  have  in  mind  in 
describing  the  type  as  the  ideal  hovering 
before  the  artist.  But  in  the  terms  of  an- 
other definition,  type  also  means  an  example 
of  a  species  or  group  combining  its  essentiak 
characteristics.  When,  therefore,  we  speak 
of  types  in  fiction  we  sometimes  mean  that 
a  person  is  portrayed  as  embodying  more  or 
less  perfectly  certain  ideals  which  exist  in  the 
mind  of  the  artist,  and  we  also  mean  very 
frequently  that  the  typical  person  is  simply 
an  excellent  example  of  a  well  known  species 
or  group. 

We  shall  find  a  convenient  il- 

The  typo  In 

natural          lustration    in    natural    history.      I 

history.  >  • 

remember  hearing  a  famous  natu- 
ralist say  that  the  crow  is  a  typical  bird,  — 


THE  CHARACTERS  117 

that  is,  that,  compared  with  the  woodpecker, 
the  hawk,  the  crane,  the  crow  represents  the 
normal  form  of  the  bird  family.  Naturalists 
speak,  indeed,  of  the  type  genus,  the  type 
species,  and  the  type  specimen,  meaning 
thereby  a  division  that  is  especially  charac- 
teristic of  the  larger  group  which  it  repre- 
sents. And  our  distinction  in  fiction  between 
the  individual  and  the  type  would  perhaps 
be  more  fully  illustrated  by  the  use  of  the 
terms  "  genus,"  "  species,"  and  "  specimen." 
Genus,  let  us  say,  corvus  ;  species,  corvus 
Americanus  ;  and  specimen,  some  particular 
crow  under  observation,  —  for  example,  old 
"  Silver-Spot,"  so  agreeably  described  by 
Mr.  Seton-Thompson.  This  distinction  is  a 
perfectly  simple  one.  When  we  say  that  the 
fox  terrier  is  intelligent,  we  mean  that  the 
type  is  intelligent.  When  I  say  that  my  fox 
terrier  is  intelligent,  I  have  the  individual  in 
mind. 

Let  us  see  how  all  this  bears  on 

.  „      ,  ,  Thlsdlstlno- 

the  question  01  character-drawing  uon  applied 

•       .C\-  \\T  -11  4-U    I    to  fiction. 

in  nction.      We  will  suppose  that 
the   novelist   wishes   to   introduce   into    his 
story  the  figure  of  Abraham  Lincoln.     It  is 
obvious  that  he  must  represent  Lincoln   as 


118  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

belonging  to  the  family  of  man,  the  genus 
American,  the  species  Westerner,  but  that 
all  these  generic  and  typical  traits  must  be 
further  differentiated  by  delineating  the  qual- 
ities which  distinguish  the  individual  speci- 
men, Abraham  Lincoln,  from  other  Western 
American  men. 

confusion  oi  But  nothing  is  more  frequent  in 
SJiSivS.*11  fiction  than  to  find  these  two 
ttaL  things  confused.  How  does  it  hap- 

pen ?  First,  through  an  attempt  to  describe 
the  individual  by  typical  traits  merely.  If  I 
say  that  a  tramp  came  to  my  back  door  this 
morning  and  asked  for  some  breakfast,  and 
that  he  had  torn  shoes,  old  clothes,  a  slouch- 
ing gait,  the  face  of  a  drinker,  I  do  not  iden- 
tify him  in  the  slightest.  If  I  were  to  put 
the  police  on  his  trail,  armed  with  such  a 
description,  it  would  fit  fifty  other  tramps  as 
well  as  the  one  I  have  in  mind.  It  is  obvious 
that  to  identify  this  particular  individual  I 
must  be  able  to  describe  some  peculiarity  of 
person  or  costume  which  differentiates  him 
from  others  of  his  class,  or  at  least  to  de- 
scribe such  a  combination  of  qualities  and 
details  as  is  not  likely  to  be  found  in  the 
case  of  any  other  tramp. 


THE  CHARACTERS  119 

Secondly,  the  type  and  the  indi-  Moral 
vidual  are  often  confused  in  char-  a*8tractlOM- 
acter-drawing  because  the  writer  substitutes 
for  the  individual  some  moral  abstraction. 
In  the  old  moralities  and  miracle  plays  such 
characters  as  Good  Fame,  Virtuous  Living, 
Tom  Tosspot,  Cuthbert  Cutpurse,  are  nothing 
but  signs  of  certain  moral  qualities,  to  be 
praised  or  reprehended  according  to  the 
pleasure  of  the  play-wright.  Even  the  Eliza- 
bethan drama,  in  all  its  wealth  of  individual 
portraiture,  is  constantly  presenting  to  us 
personages  who  are  mere  personifications  of 
moral  qualities,  and  Bunyan's  masterly  power 
of  characterization  does  not  prevent  some 
readers  from  considering  Mr.  Worldly  Wise- 
man and  Mr.  Faintheart  to  be  moral  im- 
ages rather  than  men. 

Thirdly,  the  type  is  frequently 
confused  with  the    individual  be- 
cause the  artist  gives  a  caricature  rather  than 
a   portrait.     In    pictorial    caricature,   as    wt 
know,  certain  features  are  exaggerated  until 
the  individual  is  far   removed  from  reality. 
Tweed  and  Croker,  if  we  are  to  believe  the 
caricaturists,  are  not  real  persons.     They  are 
simply  embodiments  of  certain  abstract  and 


120  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

highly  reprehensible  moral  qualities.  It  is 
easy  to  point  out,  in  some  of  the  very  great- 
est fiction,  examples  of  the  fatal  ease  with 
which  the  writer  can  turn  a  portrait  into  a 
caricature.  Sir  Pitt  Crawley's  stinginess  ap- 
parently tickled  Thackeray's  fancy  so  thor- 
oughly that  he  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
to  exaggerate  it  until  it  was  so  much  out  of 
drawing  that  it  robbed  the  character  of  its 
actuality.  As  compared  with  Sir  Pitt  Craw- 
ley,  Becky  Sharp's  portrait  shows  constant 
restraint  and  a  steady  sense  of  proportion. 
Those  personages  of  Dickens  whom  we  are 
wont  to  speak  of  as  "  Dickensy  "  characters 
are  all  too  frequently  caricatures  rather  than 
portraits.  Certain  traits  are  so  magnified 
for  purposes  of  identification  or  humor  that 
we  see  not  the  real  person  but  only  the 
"  gag>"  the  trick,  the  turn  of  farce,  which 
presents  him  to  the  audience.  Children  de- 
light in  this  sort  of  thing,  of  course,  but 
many  older  persons  wonder,  when  they  come 
to  Dickens  again,  how  all  this  false  drawing 
could  ever  have  given  them  pleasure. 
The  causes  ^  is  more  interesting,  however, 
of«onfusion:  to  inqu;re  into  tne  causes  of  this 

confusion.      Why   is   it    that   the 


lack  of  clear 

vision. 


THE  CHARACTERS  121 

artist  allows  himself  to  substitute  typical  for 
individual  traits  and  hence  to  lose  the  power 
of  imparting  a  sense  of  actuality  to  his  ficti- 
tious personages  ?  It  is  often  true,  no  doubt, 
that  the  author  fails  to  see  clearly  what  he 
wants  to  express.  He  falls  into  abstract, 
typical  delineation  through  mere  irresolution 
or  inattention,  or  it  may  be  the  overfondness 
for  what  he  may  like  to  call  the  "  ideal,"  that 
is,  for  the  abstract  rather  than  for  the  con- 
crete. To  this  latter  predilection  must  be 
attributed  the  feebleness  of  a  great  deal  of 
Romantic  art.  It  accounts  for  the  weakness 
of  Scott's  character-drawing  of  ladies  in  com- 
parison with  his  masterly  delineation  of  peas- 
ant girls. 

Then,  too,  the  prevalence  of  a 

,  ,  .     .  .          „  Prevalence  of 

fashionable  artistic   type  is   otten  iastionabie 
found    to   overpower    the    artist's 
originality.     The  "  Gibson  girl,"  who  is  said 
to  be  due  originally  to  the  influence  of  a 
certain  model  in  Mr.  Gibson's  early  career  as 
an  artist,  has  continued  not  only  to  dominate 
most  of  Mr.  Gibson's  own  drawings  of  women, 
but  has  been  nothing  less  than  an  obsession, 
though  a  charming  one,  upon  a  whole  school 
of  American  draughtsmen.     In  similar  fash- 


122  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

ion,  there  was  a  sort  of  Richard  Harding 
Davis  heroine  who  used  to  make  her  period- 
ical appearance  in  college  stories.  Indeed, 
college  stories  furnish  an  excellent  example 
of  the  prevalence  of  a  certain  fashionable 
type  and  the  consequent  neglect  of  individ- 
ual portraiture.  In  all  the  college  stories 
which  have  appeared  in  the  last  dozen  years 
how  few  sharply  characterized  individuals  are 
to  be  found !  It  is  far  easier  to  describe  the 
category  under  which  a  particular  student 
belongs  and  to  give  the  general  traits  of  the 
"  football  man,"  the  "  sport,"  the  "  grind," 
than  it  is  to  portray  the  particular  person  who 
belongs  to  the  category.  In  other  words, 
most  authors  of  college  stories  content  them- 
selves, as  far  as  character-depiction  is  con- 
cerned, by  describing  the  pigeon-hole  rather 
than  the  man  in  the  pigeon-hole. 
Failure  in  ID  the  third  place,  although  the 

expression.  fictiOn-writer  may  see  the  individ- 
ual with  perfect  distinctness,  either  as  actually 
present  before  him  or  in  imaginative  vision, 
he  may  nevertheless  not  be  able  to  express 
what  he  sees.  He  draws  the  general  charac- 
teristics of  the  type  rather  than  the  individual 
characteristics  of  the  person  because  his  vocab- 


THE  CHARACTERS  123 

ulary  is  not  sufficiently  delicate  and  precise 
for  the  task  of  portrayal.  Here,  again,  col- 
lege stories  afford  a  useful  illustration.  It 
is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  authors  of 
those  stories  see  their  fellows  less  distinctly, 
nor  that  they  perceive  imaginative  types  with 
less  clearness  of  outline,  simply  because  they 
are  dealing  with  young  men  and  young  wo- 
men. The  defect  is  chiefly  to  be  attributed 
to  the  lack  of  training  in  flexible  and  precise 
expression. 

But  for  one  or  another  of  these 
three  causes  which  have  been  briefly  uai  oharao- 
outlined,  how  few  individual  char- 
acters have  been  created  in  fiction  in  the 
last  ten  years  !  We  have  had  certain  types 
drawn  over  and  over  again  with  wearisome 
reiteration,  but  we  have  had  few  fictitious 
personages  who  have  given  us  the  impression 
of  actuality.  It  must  be  remembered  after 
all  that  the  type  is,  in  the  last  analysis,  only 
a  subjective  abstraction,  either  in  the  reader's 
mind  or  in  the  mind  of  the  artist.  The  mas- 
ters of  fiction,  surely,  have  generally  con- 
tented themselves  with  creating  personages 
and  letting  the  type  take  care  of  itself.  If 
the  personage  be  so  drawn  as  to  convey  a 


124  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

mid  sense  of  reality,  his  individual  character* 
istics  will  be  firmly  outlined ;  and  if  he  gives 
to  the  reader  an  impression  of  moral  unity, 
there  is  little  doubt  that  he  will  in  the  true 
sense  contain  the  type.  For  the  type,  so  far 
as  it  is  of  any  artistic  value,  is  implicit  in  the 
individual. 

character-  Before  bringing  to  a  close  the 
contrast.  consideration  of  the  delineation  of 
character,  we  should  note  that  some  of  the 
greatest  triumphs  in  the  portrayal  of  character 
have  been  due  to  an  effective  sense  of  charac- 
ter-contrast. The  differences  between  mem- 
bers of  the  same  family  —  as  for  instance 
between  Adam  and  Seth  Bede,  Rachel  and 
Beatrix  Esmond,  George  and  Henry  War- 
rington  —  have  been  utilized  with  consum- 
mate effect.  The  same  is  true  of  those  pairs 
or  trios  of  friends  of  which  the  history  of 
the  drama  and  of  the  novel  offers  so  many 
brilliant  examples.  Hamlet  and  Horatio, 
Athos,  Porthos  and  Aramis,  Mulvaney,  Or- 
theris  and  Learoyd,  gain  immensely  in  sa- 
liency  and  picturesqueness  of  outline  because 
they  are  thrown  into  dramatic  contrast  with 
those  friends  in  whose  presence  we  are  wont 
to  watch  them. 


THE  CHARACTERS  125 

Character  -  grouping  on  a  still  otaraoter- 
wider  scale  results  from  those  mani-  grouplnB- 
fold  social,  economical,  and  political  rela- 
tions which  place  differently  constituted  indi- 
viduals in  clearly  marked  lines  of  relation- 
ship. Master  and  servant,  mistress  and  maid, 
lover  and  confidant,  debtor  and  creditor, 
the  dwellers  on  the  farm  or  in  the  village, 
the  representatives  of  a  profession,  the  ad- 
venturers in  some  commercial  or  political 
enterprise,  are  linked  together  by  bonds 
which  give  an  opportunity  for  striking 
groups  of  characters.  Indeed,  in  every 
story,  as  in  every  play,  there  is  commonly 
some  unifying  principle,  like  a  love  affair,  a 
crime,  a  journey,  a  business  scheme,  which 
instantly  throws  all  the  persons  of  the  story 
into  some  sort  of  relationship  with  one  an- 
other. Their  attitude  towards  certain  facts 
instantly  ranks  them,  as  by  a  kind  of  irre- 
sistible physical  or  moral  gravitation.  They 
are  thrown  into  main  groups  or  subordinate 
groups  according  to  the  part  they  play  in 
the  main  plot  or  in  the  sub-plot  of  the  tale. 
They  work  out  their  individual  destiny  in 
harmony  or  in  contrast  with  the  general 
destiny  that  presides  over  the  fate  of  the 


126  A  STUDY   OF  PROSE  FICTION 

personages  in  the  narrative ;  they  advance 
or  retreat,  compromise,  surrender,  or  triumph 
as  the  judgment  and  the  insight  of  the 
writer  shall  dictate.  But  in  all  the  manifold 
and  subtle  relations  into  which  the  persons  in 
the  story  are  thrown,  there  is  an  opportunity 
for  the  most  searching,  the  most  spirited, 
the  most  brilliant  methods  of  character-de- 
lineation. If,  as  Goethe  said,  a  character  is 
formed  in  the  stream  of  the  world,  the  char- 
acters in  a  novel  form  themselves  into  more 
and  more  plastic  outlines  as  the  stream  of 
the  story  sweeps  to  its  close. 

It  is,  therefore,  quite  impossible 

Harmony  of  .  A  J 

character  and  to  conceive  of  characters  in  a  novel 

action.  . 

without  taking  into  consideration 
the  actions  in  which  those  characters  are 
involved.  The  two  elements,  character  and 
action,  should  be  harmoniously  treated. 
There  will  always  be  in  fiction,  doubtless, 
examples  of  "  plot-ridden  "  characters ;  that 
is,  persons  whose  role  in  the  story  makes 
them  do  something  which  they  would  not 
naturally  do.  A  high-minded  girl  is  made 
to  listen  at  the  door  simply  because  it  is  de- 
sirable that  she  should  be  aware  of  a  conver- 
sation taking  place  between  her  father  and 


THE  CHARACTERS  127 

her  lover.  An  honest  man  is  made  to  com- 
mit a  crime  because  a  crime  is  essential  to 
the  particular  web  of  circumstances  which 
the  author  desires  to  weave.  But  these 
instances  of  the  violation  of  truth  in  charac- 
ter are  usually  punished  by  the  sense  of  dis- 
belief which  the  reader  is  quick  to  feel.  It 
is  natural  that  we  should  demand  in  fiction, 
as  in  life,  that  the  character  should  be  true 
to  itself,  that  under  the  given  circumstances 
it  should  exhibit  consistent  behavior. 
What  is  more,  we  instinctively 

,  ,  .        ,  ,          .         Moral  unity. 

demand  in  the  characters  that  im- 
press us  by  their  individuality  that  moral 
unity  by  virtue  of  which  each  character 
shows  evidence  of  what  has  happened  to  it  in 
the  past.  Just  as  each  one  of  us  is  conscious 
of  his  past,  and  is  also  conscious  of  the 
possibilities  of  the  future,  and  bears  this 
consciousness,  although  perhaps  without  real- 
izing it,  into  every  act  of  the  present,  so  we 
desire  that  the  men  and  women  described  for 
us  in  the  pages  of  the  novelist  should  give 
this  sense  of  the  continuity,  the  unbroken 
web  of  life.  To  enter  a  railroad  station  — 
say  at  Buffalo  —  and  see  an  east-bound  ex- 
press standing  on  the  track,  resplendent  in 


128  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

paint  and  gilt,  and  ready  to  pull  out  of  the 
station,  is  to  receive  an  impression  of  actu- 
ality and  power.  But  one  has  a  far  higher 
sense  of  power  if  one  watches  at  the  station 
this  same  train  coming  in  from  the  West,  an 
hour  late,  with  vestibule  and  roof  and  win- 
dows covered  with  snow  and  ice,  in  evidence 
of  the  storm  through  which  the  train  has 
passed.  We  picture  to  ourselves  the  winter 
landscape  over  which  it  has  been  flying  in 
its  struggle  against  time.  We  know  that 
before  it  reaches  Albany  or  New  York  that 
lost  hour  must  be  made  up,  if  engine  and 
engineer  can  do  it.  The  past  and  the  fu- 
ture of  the  train  unite  in  their  impression  on 
our  consciousness,  and  impart  a  thrilling 
sensation  of  personal  force.  In  the  same 
way,  our  vision  of  men  and  women  in  the 
greatest  books  of  fiction  is  not  confined  to 
the  immediate  moment  when  they  are  pre- 
sent to  our  view ;  we  are  more  or  less  dimly 
conscious  of  the  past  and  of  the  future  of 
those  characters  and  of  all  the  moral  po- 
tentialities of  their  lives. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    PLOT 

"  Let  him  [the  fiction-writer]  choose  a  motive,  whether  of 
character  or  of  passion  ;  carefully  construct  his  plot  so  that  every 
incident  is  an  illustration  of  the  motive,  and  every  property  em- 
ployed shall  bear  to  it  a  near  relation  of  congruity  or  contrast ; 
avoid  a  sub-plot,  unless,  as  sometimes  in  Shakespeare,  the  sub- 
plot be  a  reversion  or  complement  of  the  main  intrigue  ;  .  .  .  and 
allow  neither  himself  in  the  narrative  nor  any  character  in  the 
course  of  the  dialogue,  to  utter  one  sentence  that  is  not  part  and 
parcel  of  the  business  of  the  story.  .  .  .  And  as  the  root  of  the 
whole  matter,  let  him  bear  in  mind  that  his  novel  is  not  a  tran- 
script of  life,  to  be  judged  by  its  exactitude ;  but  a  simplifica- 
tion of  some  side  or  point  of  life,  to  stand  or  fall  by  its  signifi- 
cant simplicity."  R.  L.  STEVENSON,  A  Humble  Remonstrance. 

IN  discussing  the  affiliations  of  what  plot 
the  novel  with   the  play,  in   the  meaM' 
third  chapter  of  this  book,  I  have  had  occa- 
sion to  say  something  about  the  plot  and  its 
relation  to  the  theme  and  to  the  characters 
of  the  play  or  the  novel.     The  word  means, 
as  its  etymology  implies,  a  weaving  together* 
Or,  still  more  simply,  we  understand  by  plot 
that  which  happens  to  the  characters,  —  the 
various  ways  in  which  the  forces  represented 


130  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE   FICTION 

by  the  different  personages  of  the  story  are 
made  to  harmonize  or  clash  through  external 
action. 

sources  oi  ID  determining  the  nature  and 

plot  the  details  of  the  action  of  a  story, 

it  is  obvious  that  the  novelist  may  draw  on 
the  same  sources  of  knowledge  which  he 
uses  in  the  construction  of  the  characters. 
The  plot  may  be  suggested  to  him  by  his 
own  observation,  by  memories  of  what  he 
has  heard  or  read,  or  through  the  pure  gift 
of  inventiveness.  One  can  scarcely  say  that 
there  is  marked  superiority  in  any  one  of 
these  methods.  Many  novelists,  like  Haw- 
thorne, have  been  inclined  to  confess  rue- 
fully :  "  I  have  seen  so  little  of  the  real 
world,  that  I  have  nothing  but  thin  air  to 
concoct  my  stories  out  of."  On  the  other 
hand,  the  experience  of  writers  like  Dickens, 
Thackeray,  or  Mr.  Kipling  has  crowded  their 
memory  with  incidents  and  events  admirably 
adapted  to  furnish  the  raw  material  of  count- 
less plots.  Sometimes,  no  doubt,  it  is  dif- 
ficult to  readjust  such  matter  and  make  it 
sufficiently  plastic  to  give  free  play  to  the 
imagination.  The  stories  that  come  to  one 
by  inheritance  through  half  forgotten  memo- 


THE  PLOT  131 

ries  of  country-side  legends  and  traditions,  nar- 
ratives which  one  dimly  remembers  from  old 
books  or  scraps  of  history  and  ballads,  have 
often  proved  more  stimulating  to  the  con- 
structive imagination  than  any  hints  given 
by  actual  experience.  Just  as  Liszt  wrote 
his  rhapsodies  by  utilizing  hints  and  frag- 
ments of  folk-lore  and  popular  melodies,  so 
Thomas  Hardy  finds  it  easy  in  his  "  Wessex 
Tales  "  to  utilize  the  histories  of  decaying 
families,  stories  of  adventure  of  long  ago, 
strange  tales  that  have  been  whispered  by  the 
hearth-fire  from  immemorial  times.  "  Truth 
is  stranger  than  fiction,"  and  truth  often 
needs  to  be  recast  by  a  fictive  imagination 
before  it  is  quite  ready  for  the  fiction-writer's 
hand. 

But  this  matter  of  plot  gives  lit-  OJten  a  mat. 
tie  difficulty  to  those  born  story-  *- *»««•««• 
tellers  who  have  the  gift  for  conceiving  char- 
acters in  action.  For  these  natural  spinners 
of  the  yarn,  to  whom  invention  is  the  most 
easy,  the  most  fascinating,  the  most  capti- 
vating of  gifts,  —  for  a  Stevenson,  a  Scott, 
a  Dumas,  —  to  block  out  the  plot  of  a  story 
is  a  mere  bagatelle.  In  Scott's  own  words, 
he  "  took  the  easiest  path  across  country,' 


132  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

following  merely  his  whim  or  his  natural  in- 
stinct ;  and  one  is  bound  to  record  the  fact 
that  the  novels  written  or  planned  by  these 
reckless,  inveterate  story-tellers  afford  quite 
as  much  satisfaction  to  technical  students  of 
plot-construction  as  do  the  more  elaborate 
plans  and  devices  of  those  writers  whose  in- 
terest lies  foremost  in  the  creation  of  charac- 
ter, and  with  whom  the  element  of  action  is 
of  secondary  concern. 

riot  in  its  Pl°t   in  ^s  simplest  form  may 

simplest  form.  concern  itself  with   nothing  more 

than  the  progress  of  a  single  character  and 
its  development  and  experiences  at  the  dif- 
ferent stages  of  its  career.  Take,  for  in- 
stance, that  admirable  story  by  Hawthorne, 
"  Wakefield,"  which  concerns  itself  with  the 
psychological  analysis  of  the  character  of 
an  excellent  gentleman  to  whom  it  occurred 
one  day  that  it  would  be  a  good  plan  not  to 
go  home  that  night,  and  who  consequently 
sought  lodgings  in  another  street  and  stayed 
away  from  home  for  twenty  years.  Haw- 
thorne makes  real  to  us  the  whimsical,  yet 
singularly  human  and  consistent  motive  that 
actuated  this  strange  character  in  his  aston- 
ishing performance  ;  and  although  the  story 


THE  PLOT  133 

involves  but  a  single  personage,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  point  to  any  short  story  of  equal 
length  in  which  the  reader  feels  greater  in- 
terest. 

Usually,   however,   the   plot   of 

/       ,  '  r  Dealing  with 

a  story  involves  at  least  two  char-  twocnarac- 

.  ters. 

acters.  They  embody  different 
forces,  different  ways  of  facing  and  fight- 
ing the  world  of  circumstance  with  which 
they  are  brought  into  collision.  In  "  Silas 
Marner,"  for  instance,  the  human  problem 
involved  is  the  influence  of  the  love  of  a  child 
on  the  lonely  and  embittered  nature  of  a  her- 
mit. The  action  of  the  story  is  designed  to 
bring  these  two  forces  together  and  to  note 
the  nature  of  their  mutual  reactions.  The 
plot  of  Hawthorne's  "  Rappaccini's  Daugh- 
ter "  involves  the  struggle  between  scientific 
curiosity  and  paternal  love.  These  forces 
are  embodied  in  the  persons  of  the  scientist 
and  his  daughter,  and  the  plot  is  inevitably 
worked  out  by  the  natural  laws  of  human 
character,  "  the  truth  of  the  human  heart," 
under  the  peculiar  circumstances  which  the 
author  chooses  to  describe.  And,  to  choose 
another  short  story  of  a  different  type,  there 
is  Mr-  Kipling's  "  His  Private  Honour."  In 


134  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

this  story  a  young  British  lieutenant,  in  a 
moment  of  extreme  irritation,  strikes  a  private 
soldier.  The  act  is  one  that  calls  for  dis- 
missal from  the  Queen's  service.  What  is 
the  officer  to  do  ?  He  cannot  send  money  to 
the  soldier  —  who  happens  to  be  the  redoubt- 
able Ortheris  himself  —  nor  can  he  apologize 
to  him  in  private.  Neither  can  he  let  mat- 
ters drift.  Ortheris,  too,  has  his  own  code 
of  pride  and  honor ;  he  too  is  "  a  servant  of 
the  Queen ; "  but  how  is  the  insult  to  be 
atoned  for  ?  The  way  out  of  this  apparently 
hopeless  muddle  is  a  beautifully  simple  one, 
after  all.  The  lieutenant  invites  Ortheris  to 
go  shooting  with  him,  and  when  they  are 
alone,  asks  him  to  "take  off  his  coat." 
"  Thank  you,  sir  !  "  says  Ortheris.  The  two 
men  fight  until  Ortheris  owns  that  he  is 
beaten.  Then  the  lieutenant  apologizes  for 
the  original  blow,  and  officer  and  private 
walk  back  to  camp  devoted  friends.  That 
fight  is  the  moral  salvation  of  Lieutenant 
Ouless.  The  plot  of  "  His  Private  Honour  " 
is,  therefore,  the  narrative  of  the  struggle 
between  two  kinds  of  pride,  the  pride  of  the 
officer  and  that  of  the  enlisted  man,  and  the 
solution  comes  through  Mr.  Kipling's  power 


.  THE  PLOT  135 

to  make  us  realize  the  English  love  of  fair 
play,  the  fundamental  human  equality  which 
is  common  to  both  men  despite  the  difference 
of  their  rank. 

It  is  far  easier,  however,  to  throw  Three 
the  lines  of  a  plot  into  swift  com-  charactw8- 
plication  when  there  are  at  least  three  char- 
acters involved.  The  attitude  of  two  of 
these  characters  towards  the  third  may  in- 
stantly be  utilized  to  establish  and  carry  for- 
ward new  lines  of  action.  In  "  The  Knight's 
Tale  "  of  Chaucer  the  two  young  men  im- 
prisoned in  the  tower  catch  their  first  glimpse 
of  Emily,  and  this  moment  marks  the  first 
entanglement  of  the  threads  of  the  future 
plot.  In  Miss  Wilkins's  "  New  England 
Nun  "  there  is  an  extremely  skillful  example 
of  this  kind  of  plot.  The  story  opens  with  a 
picture  of  Louisa  Ellis,  an  "old  maid,"  sitting 
in  her  quiet  room  on  a  summer  afternoon, 
and  receiving  an  embarrassed  visit  from  her 
betrothed  lover,  Joe  Daggett.  Their  en- 
gagement has  lasted  fifteen  years,  while  he 
has  been  absent  in  Australia  seeking  his  for- 
tune. Each  has  been  faithful  to  the  other, 
yet  now  that  the  wedding  is  only  a  week 
away,  disorder  and  confusion  seem  entering 


136  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

her  cloistered  life  in  place  of  peace  and  har- 
mony. She  does  not  dare  tell  her  lover  how 
much,  after  all,  she  dreads  to  marry  him. 
He,  too,  has  become  aware  that  their  passion 
is  a  thing  of  the  past ;  he  is  conscious  of  a 
love  for  Lily  Dyer,  a  younger  woman ;  but 
he  is  as  finely  loyal  to  his  old  promise  as 
Louisa  herself.  How  does  Miss  Wilkins 
cut  the  knot  ?  By  making  Louisa  stroll 
down  the  road  one  moonlight  night  and  un- 
wittingly overhear  a  conversation  between 
Joe  and  Lily,  in  which  she  learns  that  they 
love  each  other,  but  that  they  both  believe  it 
cruel  and  wrong  for  Joe  to  break  his  engage- 
ment with  Louisa.  It  is  now  easy  and  natural 
for  Louisa  to  release  Joe,  to  see  him  married 
to  Lily  Dyer,  and  happily,  prayerfully,  to 
number  her  own  days  "  like  an  uncloistered 
nun." 

The  "thre«-  I*  may  be  added  that  the  essen- 
ciover "  re-  *ial  elements  of  this  three-cornered 
lationship.  game  played  by  two  men  and  one 
woman,  or  two  women  and  one  man,  here 
handled  by  Miss  Wilkins  in  one  of  its  most 
innocent  and  unsophisticated  phases,  present 
to  the  fiction-writer,  for  purely  technical  rea- 
sons, a  fascinating  problem.  Such  a  three- 


THE  PLOT  137 

fold  relationship  inevitably  involves  the  play 
of  strong  passions,  the  elements  of  fear,  of 
jealousy,  of  danger,  of  surprise,  of  remorse ; 
and  all  of  these  are  furnished,  as  it  were,  ready 
to  the  novelist's  hand  by  the  theme  itself. 

As  was  pointed  out  in  the  chap-  compiicatiom 
ter  devoted  to  the  drama,  the  olplot 
complication  of  the  plot  begins  with  the 
introduction  of  new  incidents  or  new  per- 
sonages, or  with  the  introduction  of  new  mo- 
tives growing  out  of  the  relationships  which 
are  made  evident  at  the  outset  of  the  story. 
In  Hawthorne's  "  The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables  "  the  opening  of  the  shop  marks  the 
beginning  of  the  complication.  In  "  The 
Scarlet  Letter  "it  is  the  entrance  of  Roger 
Chillingworth.  It  is  an  interesting  question 
how  far  the  complication  of  the  plot  may 
be  carried  out  without  confusing  or  perplex- 
ing the  reader.  Novelists  of  the  Latin  races 
have  commonly  given  evidence  of  a  greater 
instinct  for  unity,  are  more  simple  in  the 
constructive  features  of  their  work,  than 
those  of  the  Teutonic  races.  The  novels  of 
Dickens  and  Thackeray  probably  mark  the 
extreme  limit  of  complexity,  as  regards 
the  number  of  personages  introduced,  the 


138  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

variety  of  sub-plots,  and  the  length  of  time 
required  for  the  main  action  of  the  story. 
There  are  said  to  be  seventy-five  person  ages 
in  "  Our  Mutual  Friend,"  and  sixty  in  "  Van- 
ity Fair."  In  "  Middlemarch  "  there  are 
twenty-two  persons  whose  portraits  are  painted 
at  full  length.1  American  fiction  has  appar- 
ently been  more  influenced  of  late  by  Con- 
tinental than  by  English  examples,  and  the 
result  has  been  a  more  marked  simplicity  in 
construction. 

incident  and  In  studying  the  complication  of 
situation.  ^ne  plot,  it  often  becomes  advan- 
tageous to  distinguish  between  incidents 
which  reveal  the  true  nature  of  the  charac- 
ters and  situations  which  determine  char- 
acter. The  difference  in  the  thing  is  more 
to  be  insisted  upon  than  the  differentiation 
of  names,  and  yet  it  is  fair  to  characterize  as 
an  "  incident "  any  event  which  gives  the 
reader  a  clearer  insight  into  the  constitution 
and  motives  of  the  personages  in  the  story.  In 
"  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  "  the  elabo- 
rate scene  at  the  breakfast-table  has  for  its 
sole  aim  the  presentation  of  the  character  of 

1  C.  F.  Johnson,  Elements  of  Literary  Criticism,  p.  8ft. 
New  York:  Harpers. 


THE  PLOT  139 

Clifford,  and  the  whole  chapter  is  devoted  to 
the  revelation  of  the  finer  and  more  aesthetic 
traits  of  his  worn,  delicate  nature.  It  is  for 
this  purpose  only  that  the  breakfast-table 
scene  finds  its  justification.  In  "  Henry 
Esmond,"  Harry's  drive  on  the  downs  with 
Lord  Mohun  is  the  incident  used  to  give  a 
more  complete  exposition  of  character,  as 
well  as  of  the  relationship  gradually  growing 
up  between  Harry  and  Kachel  Esmond.  It 
determines  nothing.  It  simply  informs  us 
of  what  is  going  on,  what  must  be  reckoned 
with.  On  the  other  hand,  to  take  another 
illustration  from  the  same  novel,  the  scene 
where  Harry  sees  Beatrix  descending  the 
staircase,  and  also  the  one  where  Harry 
breaks  his  sword  in  the  presence  of  the  Pre- 
tender, or  in  "  The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables  "  again,  in  the  scene  where  Judge 
Pyncheon  demands  entrance  into  the  parlor 
and  is  refused,  —  these  are  situations  which 
really  determine  character  as  well  as  reveal  it. 
Esmond  is  a  different  man  after  those  scenes 
have  been  depicted  ;  and  Judge  Pyncheon  has 
himself  been  judged. 

Perhaps  enough  has  been  said  Cllmtt 
in  the  third  chapter  to  illustrate 


140  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

the  similarity  between  the  climax  in  the  novel 
and  the  climax  in  the  play.  In  both  of  these 
parallel  forms  of  literature  there  is  commonly 
some  scene  which  marks  the  greatest  tension, 
the  keenest  suspense,  involved  in  the  relation 
of  the  characters.  The  elopement  of  Stephen 
Guest  and  Maggie  Tulliver,  Gwendolen's  aw- 
ful moment  of  hesitation  when  Grandcourt  is 
struggling  in  the  water,  will  illustrate  George 
Eliot's  management  of  climax  passages.  In 
such  passages  the  personal  forces  involved 
are  for  the  instant  in  equilibrium.  Thence- 
forward everything  sweeps  on  to  the  denou- 
ment  or  catastrophe  of  the  story.  There  is 
little  difference  between  the  novel  and  the 
play  in  the  technical  disposition  of  the  series 
of  incidents  and  situations  which  make  up 
the  "  rising  "  and  the  "  falling  "  action. 

There  is,  however,  a  noticeable 

Catastrophe.         m  * 

distinction  in  the  technical  handling 
of  the  catastrophe.  The  absolute  necessity 
in  the  drama  of  externalizing  upon  the  stage 
the  forces  knit  together  in  the  final  struggle 
makes  compulsory  the  actual  exhibition  of 
various  events  which  the  novelist  would  pre- 
fer to  suggest  merely.  Indeed,  it  has  come 
to  be  the  favorite  theory  with  a  certain 


THE  PLOT  141 

school  of  psychological  novelists  that,  as  life 
seldom  presents  any  dramatic  catastrophes, 
fiction  had  better  avoid  catastrophes  too.  In 
the  novels  of  this  sort  nothing  in  particular 
occurs.  At  the  close  we  miss  the  "  God 
bless  you,  my  children  !  "  and  also  the  tragic 
allotment  of  disaster  or  disgrace.  The  char- 
acters live  on,  quite  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, and  it  is  only  the  new  insight  into 
personality,  the  new  descriptions  of  the  nat- 
ural world  or  of  social  forces,  which  the 
reader  has  as  a  reward  for  his  pains. 

All  this  turns,  as  a  matter  of  Theoiiarao- 
course,  upon  the  relation  of  the  tern°7eL 
personages  to  the  underlying  theme.  In  the 
novel  of  character,  as  opposed  to  the  novel  of 
incident,  the  author  is  chiefly  concerned  with 
the  solution  of  certain  problems  of  emotion 
or  of  will.  When  he  has  worked  these  out 
to  his  satisfaction,  his  task  is  finished,  and 
he  becomes  relatively  indifferent  to  the  final 
disposition  of  all  the  personages  of  the  tale. 
It  is  well  known  that  Hawthorne  added  the 
present  closing  chapter  to  "  The  Marble 
Faun  "  at  the  request  of  his  publishers,  and 
this  fact  suggests  the  irreconcilable  difference 
between  the  point  of  view  of  the  romancer 


142  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

absorbed  in  moral  problems  and  of  the  readei 
who  merely  wants  to  know  what  happened 
"  ever  afterwards." 

The  plot-  1°  the  plot-novel,  on  the  other 

noveL  hand,  the  inner  truth  of  character 

may  often  be  neglected  or  distorted,  pro- 
vided successive  shocks  of  surprise  and  plea- 
sure are  cleverly  arranged.  The  detective 
story,  for  instance,  deals  chiefly  with  the 
elements  of  curiosity  and  suspense.  But  the 
curiosity,  while  it  must  be  stimulating,  must 
not  be  carried  to  the  extreme  of  perplexity, 
and  the  suspense  must  not  be  too  long  sus- 
tained. In  proportion  as  the  stress  is  laid 
upon  adventure  merely,  as  in  the  picaresque 
novel,  there  need  be  little  if  any  complexity 
in  the  plot.  The  mere  succession  of  inci- 
dents, like  those  in  Stevenson's  "  St.  Ives," 
is  enough  to  hold  the  fascinated  attention  of 
the  reader.  The  weakness,  however,  in  many 
of  the  modern  types  of  the  novel  of  adven- 
ture, is  not  due  to  placing  too  much  stress 
upon  mere  incident  as  an  element,  but  tr 
the  fact  that  character-interest  has  become  a 
negligible  quantity.  If  the  reader  does  not, 
for  the  time  being,  believe  in  the  reality  of 
those  characters  whose  adventures  he  is  asked 


THE   PLOT  143 

to  follow,  he  soon  finds  himself  little  con- 
cerned with  the  adventures.  For,  after  all, 
as  the  history  of  the  drama  has  shown  so  abun- 
dantly, that  which  perennially  fascinates  us 
in  the  human  spectacle  is  the  exhibition  of 
character  in  action.  Characters  who  do  not 
act,  and  conversely  the  mere  outward  show 
and  stir  of  movement  not  informed  by  any 
real  intellectual  or  passional  life,  alike  fail  to 
move  our  interest,  our  hopes,  or  fears. 

The  question  of  suspense  in  the  Mysteryana 
plot  leads  naturally  to  the  element  m7stltlcaUon- 
of  mystery.  In  any  good  story  we  are  led 
to  a  normal  interest  both  in  what  the  charac- 
ters will  do  under  the  stress  of  unsuspected 
circumstances  and  in  the  shape  which  events 
will  take.  But  this  expectation  of  "  some- 
thing evermore  about  to  be,"  which  lends  in- 
terest to  fiction  as  it  does  to  life,  must  be  dis- 
tinguished from  that  element  of  mystery  with 
which  many  novelists  have  loved  to  surround 
certain  of  their  characters,  and  in  which  they 
have  liked  to  hide  the  intricacies  of  their 
plots.  It  is  in  this  sense  that  Miriam  in  "  The 
Marble  Faun  "  is  a  mysterious  character,  and 
that  there  is  a  "  mystery  "  in  most  detective 
stories.  While  this  element  of  mystery  is 


144  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

by  no  means  essential  to  the  interest  of  a 
work  of  fiction,  it  is  capable  of  the  most 
artistic  handling.  But  when  the  mystery 
becomes  mystification,  when  both  the  person- 
ages in  the  story  and  the  readers  of  the  story 
are  deliberately  fooled  by  the  author,  the 
book  commonly  pays  at  last  the  penalty  of 
this  deception.  When  we  learn  at  the  end 
of  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  "Mysteries  of  Udolpho" 
that  all  the  mysterious  terrors  which  have 
played  such  a  potent  role  in  the  plot  were  the 
result  of  a  mechanical  contrivance,  it  is  im- 
possible to  reread  the  book  with  any  of  those 
delightful  thrills  of  horror  which  the  impres- 
sionable reader  experienced  upon  the  first 
reading.  But  between  this  deliberate  decep- 
tion of  the  reader  and  the  painful  efforts  of 
some  realistic  novelist  to  place  the  reader  in 
possession  of  all  the  facts,  there  is  an  infinite 
variety  of  possible  methods.  Perhaps  the 
critic  cannot  do  more  than  say  that  that  book 
is  likely  to  give  the  most  pleasure  to  the  reader 
which  presents,  in  accordance  with  the  con- 
ventions and  in  the  terms  of  art,  the  sense  of 
uncertainty,  the  blindfold  striving,  the  con- 
stant awaiting  of  the  revelation  of  the  coming 
moment,  which  play  such  an  appreciable  part 
in  life  itself. 


THE  PLOT  145 

Closely  allied  with  the  element 

«  •         i  n  •  -i  Accident 

or  mystery  is  that  or  accident, 
sometimes  used  as  a  complicating  but  more 
often  as  a  resolving  force.  It  is  accident  that 
weaves  and  unravels  the  plot  of  many  a  novel. 
The  hero  picks  up  a  handkerchief,  or  steps 
on  a  lady's  train,  or  unwittingly  insults  an 
unknown  rival,  or  knocks  at  the  wrong  door 
of  an  inn,  and  upon  these  trivialities  hangs, 
or  seems  to  hang,  his  entire  fortune.  Simi- 
larly, when  the  climax  of  a  story  has  been 
reached,  there  is  often  in  fiction,  as  in  the 
drama,  some  petty  incident,  apparently  acci- 
dental but  really  hidden  deep  in  the  nature 
of  things,  which  determines  the  catastrophe. 
Indeed,  it  may  be  said  that  it 

,.     ,       ,     J       „  .         .        Retribution. 

matters  little  how  frequently  the 
novelist  complicates  or  simplifies  his  plot  by 
the  introduction  of  the  element  of  accident, 
provided  the  accidents  seem  to  be  thus  a 
part  of  the  natural  order  of  things.  Rich- 
ard the  Lion-Hearted  dies  by  a  chance  arrow, 
and  yet  what  other  fate  would  be  so  inevit- 
able to  an  adventurous,  reckless,  wandering 
hero  ?  Bill  Sykes  hangs  himself  with  a  noose 
of  his  own  making,  and  yet  Dickens  seems 
to  be  a  fellow-worker  with  Providence  in  de- 


146  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

signing  such  an  appropriate  and  wholly  pleas- 
ing end  for  such  a  villain.  It  is  a  tempta- 
tion to  the  unskilled  novelist  to  kill  off  his 
personages  at  a  convenient  time,  to  resort 
to  all  sorts  of  advantageous  and  unexpected 
devices  to  get  rid  of  the  superfluous  figures 
in  his  story.  But  to  link  apparently  acci- 
dental, external  circumstances  with  inner 
laws  of  character  and  conduct,  to  make  what 
happens  to  the  characters  a  fit  result  of  all 
which  the  characters  have  done  or  been  in 
the  past,  gives  an  opportunity  for  the  most 
profound  insight  into  the  moral  structure  of 
the  world.  When  Judge  Pyncheon  tries  by 
brute  energy  and  with  deadly  hatred  of  pur- 
pose to  force  his  way  into  the  little  parlor  of 
the  Pyncheon  house,  Hepzibah  says  to  him, 
"  God  will  not  let  you."  The  Judge  re- 
plies, "  We  shall  see."  And  we  do  see 
through  the  long  hours  of  the  ensuing  night 
the  terrible  retribution  which  came  instantly 
upon  him.  Yet  Hawthorne  takes  pains  to 
suggest  that  there  may  be  a  perfectly  natural 
physical  explanation  of  the  sudden  death  of 
the  Judge.  Not  the  "  visitation  of  God," 
as  juries  are  wont  to  say  when  at  their  wits' 
end,  but  an  inherited  tendency  to  apoplexy, 


THE  PLOT  147 

joined  with  a  moment  of  intense  bodily  and 
mental  excitement,  is  sufficient  to  account  for 
the  Judge's  death.  An  even  more  familiar 
example  of  extraordinary  insight  and  truth 
on  the  novelist's  part  is  evinced  in  the  Tem- 
plar's death  in  "  Ivanhoe."  Here,  too,  a 
natural  explanation  is  at  hand.  Ivanhoe  has 
appealed  to  "  the  judgment  of  God ;  "  yet 
the  Templar  dies,  Scott  tells  us,  through  the 
"  violence  of  his  own  contending  passions." 
But  the  threads  of  the  story  are  drawn  to- 
gether with  so  sure  a  hand  that  the  reader 
feels  certain  that  this  dread  event  is  fated. 
" '  This  is  indeed  the  judgment  of  God,'  said 
the  Grand  Master,  looking  upwards  — e  Fiat 
voluntas  tua.' ' 

It  is  hard  to  say,  indeed,  iust 

U  V     t  1     '     J'  •          Fatelnth. 

what  we  mean  by  rate  in  discussing  modem 
the  denoument  or  catastrophe  of  the 
modern  novel.     It  is  easy  enough  in  com- 
menting on  the  Greek  drama  to  point  out  the 
beginning  and  the  end  of  the  Nemesis  action, 
and  the  conventions  of  the  Greek  drama  as 
well  as  many  of  its  moral  implications  have 
descended  to  us  almost  unbroken.     Yet  it  is 
hardly  possible,  in  a  world  pervaded,  like  our 
modern  world,  by  Christian  ethics  and  a  Chris- 


148  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

tian  philosophy,  that  the  old  Greek  theory  of 
the  role  which  fate  plays  in  human  affairs 
should  still  prevail.  In  one  sense  the  world  of 
art,  the  world  revealed  to  us  by  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  novelist  or  the  poet,  is  a  world 
which  is  neither  Christian  nor  pagan.  Even 
this  imaginary  world,  however,  can  never  be 
unmoral  unless  it  be  at  the  same  time  unreal. 
"  Morality,"  said  Mme.  de  Stael  very  finely, 
"  is  in  the  nature  of  things."  The  laws  of 
human  life  itself,  laws  older  than  any  pagan 
or  Christian  interpretation  or  revelation  of 
them,  assert  that  in  any  long  view  of  life  it 
is  well  with  the  good  and  ill  with  the  wicked. 
It  is  true  that  in  any  stage  of  the  world's 
progress  it  is  possible  that  the  individual 
artist  may  revert  to  an  earlier,  outworn  type 
of  philosophy  and  faith.  He  may  cherish  a 
pagan  theory  of  the  Christian  world.  Like 
Thomas  Hardy  at  the  close  of  "-Tess  of  the 
D'Urbervilles,"  which  is  an  admirable  ex- 
pression of  a  poignant,  thoughtful,  yet  thor- 
oughly pagan  interpretation  of  life,  he  may 
utter  a  cynical  jest  at  the  moral  order  oi 
this  planet.  Says  Mr.  Hardy,  "  Time,  the 
Archsatirist,  had  had  his  joke  out  with 
Tess." 


THE  PLOT  149 

This  is  consistent  with  the  theme  .<  Poetlo 
of  the  book,  but  it  is  inconsistent  Justloe-" 
with  the  world  in  which  Mr.  Hardy  is  liv- 
ing and  with  the  noblest  teachings  of  the 
greatest  masters  of  his  art.  In  assigning 
"poetic  justice  "  to  the  men  and  women  of 
their  stories,  they  have  succeeded  most  truly 
when  they  have  allotted  the  fates  of  their 
personages  in  accordance  with  what  they 
have  conceived  to  be  the  laws  of  Divine  Jus- 
tice. The  profounder  artists  in  the  imagi- 
nary world  of  fiction,  and  the  Providence, 
however  named,  who  presides  over  the  real 
world  of  nature  and  human  life,  are  working 
on  the  same  terms  and  expressing  the  same 
truth. 

In  following  the  main  lines  of 

.          .  Sab-plots. 

action  in  a  story,  the  student  of 
fiction  will  do  well  to  observe  the  different 
ways  in  which  the  main  and  the  subordinate 
plots  are  related.  Often  the  subordinate  plot 
is  the  mere  reflection  of  the  greater  plot,  as 
the  love  affair  of  Lorenzo  and  Jessica  in 
"  The  Merchant  of  Venice  "  is  the  obvious 
replica  of  that  of  Portia  and  Bassanio.  And 
where  the  theme  of  the  novelist  is  philo- 


150  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

sophical  or  scientific,  designed  to  show  the 
presence  in  human  affairs  of  certain  lines  of 
causation  and  certain  modes  of  thinking  and 
feeling,  the  lesser  group  of  characters  may 
often  be  used  most  skillfully  to  reflect,  in 
different  degrees,  the  main  teaching  of  the 
book.  Thomas  Hardy's  peasants  furnish  ex- 
cellent examples  of  this  philosophizing,  as  do 
the  rustics  of  George  Eliot.  Frequently  the 
sub-plot  follows  inevitably  upon  the  main 
plot.  If  the  story  of  "  Silas  Marner"  turns 
upon  the  redemption  of  a  lonely  old  man 
by  a  child,  it  becomes  necessary  to  provide 
a  child  for  the  purpose,  and  this  leads  to 
the  invention  of  Godfrey  Cass's  unfortunate 
marriage.  Very  often,  however,  the  sub- 
plot is  joined  to  the  main  plot  in  a  purely 
artificial  fashion.  The  minor  characters  are 
designed  to  give  variety  or  relief,  to  supply 
a  love  interest  or  an  element  of  comedy,  or 
to  pique  one's  historical  interest  concerning 
some  great  person  who  is  made  to  appear  for 
the  moment  upon  the  scene.  Rose  and  Lang- 
ham,  although  they  are  most  attractively  and 
carefully  wrought  figures,  have  nothing  to 
do  with  the  real  plot  of  "  Robert  Elsmere." 


' 


7, 


THE  PLOT  151 

Savonarola  has  no  role  to  play  in  George 
Eliot's  "  Romola  "  except  in  so  far  as  he  is 
introduced  to  give  advice  to  the  heroine  in 
the  hour  of  her  need,  and  to  illustrate  cer- 
tain characteristic  phases  of  fifteenth  century 
Florence. 

Something;  has  already  been  said 

J  Plot-deter- 

about  the  danger  of  plot  -  deter-  mined  char- 
mined  characters.  Where  the  plot 
requires  a  love  episode  the  novelist  is  tempted 
to  make  a  given  man  fall  in  love  with  a 
given  woman  "upon  compulsion,"  even  if  the 
natures  of  the  two  persons,  as  well  as  the  ciir 
cumstances  involved,  protest  against  the  alli- 
ance. There  is  no  surer  mark  of  the  amateur 
in  fiction  than  the  fascination  said  to  be 
exerted  by  certain  characters  who  obviously 
have  no  fascination  to  exert.  "  Bright 
ideas  "  come  to  characters  who  could  never 
by  any  stretch  of  the  imagination  conceive 
of  a  bright  idea.  We  are  assured  of  the 
sudden  access  of  courage  or  devotion  or 
folly  in  persons  in  whose  temperaments  and 
characters  there  is  no  room  for  these  traits 
which  it  becomes  necessary  for  the  unfortu- 
nate author  to  discover  and  utilize. 


152  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

Finally,  the  action  of  the  story 
latedtoset-  itself  should  be  related  not  only  to 
the  characters  themselves,  but  to 
those  circumstances  and  events  indirectly 
involved  in  the  tale,  and  furnishing  as  it 
were  the  background  and  setting  for  it.  The 
plot  of  the  "Tale  of  Two  Cities,"  for  in- 
stance, must  do  no  violence  to  the  supposed 
characters  of  Dr.  Manette  and  Sydney  Car- 
ton, but  it  must  also  be  faithful  as  far  as 
possible  to  the  spirit  and  the  external  facts 
of  the  French  Revolution  itself.  Indeed,  in 
the  case  of  this  particular  book,  it  is  well 
known  that  Dickens's  imagination  began  to 
work  on  the  period,  upon  the  events  and  pas- 
sions of  that  stormy  time,  rather  than  upon 
the  distinctive  personages  of  the  tale.  He 
carried  around  in  his  pocket,  for  months  be- 
fore he  began  to  write  the  story,  a  copy  of 
Carlyle's  "  French  Revolution,"  familiarizing 
himself  with  the  dramatic  forces  involved  in 
that  extraordinary  epoch.  When  he  came 
later  to  invent  his  personages  and  to  assign 
to  them  their  appropriate  roles  in  the  drama 
which  they  were  to  play,  he  depicted  both 
characters  and  action  in  harmony  with  the 
enveloping  circumstances,  with  the  fears,  the 


THE  PLOT  153 

hopes,  the  anguish,  the  suspense  of  the  Kevo- 
lution  itself.  If,  as  we  saw  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  preceding  chapter,  it  is  necessary  that 
the  characters  of  a  novel  should  be  con- 
ceived in  reference  to  the  part  they  are  to 
play  in  the  plot,  we  must  now  recognize  with 
equal  clearness  that  the  plot  itself  must  stand 
in  artistic  relation  to  the  setting. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    SETTING 

"  Either  on  that  day  or  about,  that  time  I  remember  very 
distinctly  his  saying  to  me :  '  There  are,  so  far  as  I  know, 
three  ways,  and  three  ways  only,  of  writing  a  story.  You 
may  take  a  plot  and  fit  characters  to  it,  or  you  may  take  a  char- 
acter and  choose  incidents  and  situations  to  develop  it,  or  lastly 
—  you  must  hear  with  me  while  I  try  to  make  this  clear '  — 
(here  he  made  a  gesture  with  his  hand  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
shape  something  and  give  it  outline  and  form)  —  '  you  may  take 
a  certain  atmosphere  and  get  action  and  persons  to  express  and 
realize  it.  I  '11  give  you  an  example  —  The  Merry  Men.  There 
I  began  with  the  feeling  of  one  of  those  islands  on  the  west 
coast  of  Scotland,  and  I  gradually  developed  the  story  to  ex- 
press the  sentiment  with  which  the  coast  affected  me.' "  The 
Life  and  Letters  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  by  GKAHAM  BAL- 

VOUK. 

"  It  is  the  habit  of  my  imagination  to  strive  after  as  full  a 
vision  of  the  medium  in  which  a  character  moves  as  of  the  char- 
acter itself.  The  psychological  causes  which  prompted  me  to 
give  such  details  of  Florentine  life  and  history  as  I  have  given 
[in  Bomola]  are  precisely  the  same  as  those  which  determined 
me  in  giving  the  details  of  English  village  life  in  Silas  Marner 
or  the  '  Dodson  '  life,  out  of  which  were  developed  the  destinies 
of  poor  Tom  and  Maggie."  QBOBGB  ELIOT,  quoted  in  her  Lift 
by  J.  W.  CROSS. 

Meaning*  WHEN  we  read  Victor  Hugo's 
the  word.  "Ninety-Three,"  Pierre  Loti's 
"  Iceland  Fisherman,"  Tolstoi's  "  War  and 


THE  SETTING  155 

Peace,"  or,  to  take  a  modern  instance,  Mr. 
Frank  Norris's  "  The  Octopus,"  we  are  con- 
scious of  one  strong  element  of  interest 
•which  lies  outside  of  the  sphere  of  character 
or  action.  This  interest  is  provided  by  what 
we  will  call,  for  lack  of  a  more  satisfactory 
word,  the  setting.  Sometimes  we  shall  use 
this  word  as  synonymous  with  milieu,  —  the 
circumstances,  namely,  that  surround  and 
condition  the  appearance  of  the  characters. 
Sometimes  the  setting  of  the  novel  corre- 
sponds precisely  to  the  scenic  effects  of  the 
stage,  in  that  it  gives  a  mere  background  for 
the  vivid  presentation  of  the  characters.  It 
will  thus  be  seen  that  in  the  setting,  that 
tertium  quid  which  is  neither  characters  nor 
action,  we  have  something  corresponding  to 
what  we  should  call  "  atmosphere  "  if  we 
were  to  speak  in  the  terms  of  art,  or  "  en- 
vironment "  if  we  were  to  use  the  terminology 
of  science. 

The  novelist  secures  the  setting  Basednpon 
of  his  stories  precisely  as  he  ob-  what? 
tains  his  characters  and  his  plot ;   that  is, 
by  his   observation,  from   his  reading,  and 
from  that  function  of  the  imagination  which 
recombines  and  invents,  using  the  unassorted 


156  A  STUDY   OF  PROSE  FICTION 

fragments  of  experience.  Tolstoi's  "  Sebas- 
topol "  reproduces  the  author's  memories 
of  the  Crimean  War.  "  Lorna  Doone  "  is 
an  accurate  presentation  of  Blackmore's  study 
of  the  Doone  country.  In  Scott's  Borderland 
novels,  as  everybody  knows,  there  is  an 
easily  successful  effort  to  suggest  the  atmos- 
phere of  his  own  country-side ;  and  together 
with  this  Scott  utilized  all  the  materials  fur- 
nished by  his  vast  and  miscellaneous  reading 
to  construct  the  imaginative  background  for 
his  historical  tales.  But  very  few  books 
present  to  us,  as  far  as  the  setting  is  con- 
cerned, a  strictly  veracious,  unaltered  tran- 
script of  life.  The  novel  is  rather  what  a 
painter  would  call  a  composition  from  stud- 
ies, and  the  studies  are  brought  together 
from  strange  and  unrelated  sources.  Yet 
even  in  the  most  Utopian  of  novels,  where 
writers  have  striven  to  invent  a  new  world 
of  the  future  and  to  present  their  heroes  and 
heroines  in  an  atmosphere  wholly  unfamiliar 
to  the  contemporary  reader,  they  have  never 
succeeded  in  getting  very  far  away  from  the 
earth  we  know.  The  greater  triumphs  of 
fictive  genius  have  commonly  been  in  those 
stories  where  the  setting  is  that  of  the  ordi- 


THE  SETTING  157 

nary  field  and  stream  and  town,  but  where  the 
imagination  touches  all  this  with  a  new  trans 
forming  light. 

The  present  passion  for  histor-  Hlstorlcai 
ical  novels  makes  the  subject  of  settln*- 
historical  setting  one  of  unusual  interest.  If 
one  compares  the  work  of  Scott  with  that  of 
George  Ebers,the  novels  of  Kingsley  and  Bui- 
wer  Lytton  with  those  of  Mr.  Stanley  Wey- 
man  and  Mr.  Maurice  Hewlett,  one  will  be 
conscious  of  an  immense  gain  in  accuracy. 
The  growth  of  historical  knowledge  has  been 
constant.  There  has  likewise  been  a  steady 
increase  of  interest  in  antiquarian  detail. 
The  elaborate  and  painful  efforts  of  the 
modern  stage  to  secure  historically  correct 
costuming  has  unquestionably  affected  the 
consciences  of  our  novelists.  More  than  one 
of  them  has  confessed  the  toil  it  has  cost 
him  to  prepare  himself  to  write  a  book  in- 
volving precise  knowledge  of  such  matters 
as  heraldry  or  the  details  of  monastic  life. 
Some  of  our  writers  have  shown  extraordi- 
nary zeal  in  "  getting  up  "  their  subjects,  and 
have  been  able,  in  spite  of  it,  to  mould  theii 
material  with  some  freedom.  Nevertheless, 
generally  speaking,  one  may  say  that  as  the 


158  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

standard  of  accuracy  rises,  the  imagination, 
that  other  and  indispensable  end  of  the  bal- 
ance scales,  goes  down.  The  spirit  of  truth 
to  fact,  as  we  have  seen  in  the  chapter  on 
science,  has  often  been  hostile  to  the  spirit 
of  imagination.  Doubtless  there  never  were 
such  persons  as  Scott's  Saracens  or  Cooper's 
Red  Men,  but  fiction  would  be  greatly  the 
loser  if  Scott  and  Cooper  had  confined  them- 
selves to  the  basis  of  demonstrable  fact.  That 
mediaeval  world  in  which  Scott's  imagination 
moved  so  delightedly  and  with  such  incompar- 
able vigor  and  variety  had  no  existence  out- 
side of  the  pages  of  his  novels.  But  "  Ivan- 
hoe  "is  no  worse  a  book  from  the  fact  that 
such  Saxons  and  Normans  as  move  through 
its  pages  never  wandered  over  actual  English 
fields. 

The  modern  spirit  of  precise  ob- 

Local  color.  . 

servation,  however,  has  unquestion- 
ably aided  many  novelists  in  giving  to  their 
books  the  atmosphere  of  a  definite  locality. 
When  a  writer  places  the  scene  of  his  stories 
in  the  Tennessee  mountains,  a  Californian 
mining  camp,  upon  a  New  England  hillside, 
or  a  Louisiana  bayou,  we  can  usually  depend 
now-a-days  upon  a  certain  fidelity  to  fact  and 


THE  SETTING  159 

sensitiveness  to  local  coloring.  He  has  prob- 
ably made  an  bonest  effort  to  realize  in  his 
story  the  impression  made  upon  him  by  the 
landscape  and  the  people  of  those  quarters 
of  the  world. 

The  same  is  true  of  those  studies 

.         Occupations 

or  great  human  occupations  which  and  institu- 

11  P  •  1  U01UI- 

have  been  so  trequent  in  modern 
fiction.  English  politics  or  English  clerical 
life  thus  affords  an  effective  setting  for  Trol- 
lope's  stories.  Captain  King  chooses  war,  Mr. 
Hamlin  Garland  farming,  Mr.  Richard  Hard- 
ing Davis  cosmopolitan  adventure,  Charles 
Dudley  Warner  the  life  of  the  unemployed 
rich,  Mr.  Zangwill  the  life  of  the  unemployed 
poor,  as  the  setting,  the  enveloping  action 
and  circumstances  of  their  stories.  Preva- 
lent social  ideas,  long-standing  social  institu- 
tions, afford  similar  backgrounds  for  the  work 
of  the  novelist.  It  thus  becomes  natural  to 
speak  of  Scott  as  the  romancer  of  feudalism, 
or  of  Mr.  Howells  as  the  novelist  of  Amer- 
ican democracy  under  contemporary  social 
conditions.  Other  fiction-writers  have  used 
socialism  or  patriotism  or  monasticism  as  fur- 
nishing the  underlying  framework  for  their 
productions.  In  all  these  cases  it  will  be 


160  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

noted  that  the  setting  is  something  which 
lies  back  of  the  characters,  and  which  may 
even  be  considered  apart  from  them. 

Let   us   take   one  of   the  most 

Landscape  „  .          .  . 

setting:  striking  instances  which  literature 
affords  of  the  development  of  what 
was  once  a  minor  and  accidental  feature  of 
the  work  of  fiction  into  a  recognized  and  im- 
mensely significant  element  of  it,  namely,  the 
evolution  of  the  use  of  landscape  in  fiction 
during  the  last  century  and  a  half.  In  Rous- 
seau's "  New  Heloise  "  there  was  a  new  force 
at  work  which  the  readers  of  that  singular 
romance  were  not  slow  to  recognize.  It  was 
the  part  which  nature  herself  played  in  the 
story.  The  mountain,  the  lake,  the  stream, 
were  there  not  merely  for  adornment,  but  as 
an  integral  part  of  the  story  itself.  All  the 
literary  children  of  Rousseau  have  followed 
him  in  this  recognition  of  the  potency  of 
natural  scenery  as  influencing  the  thoughts 
and  sentiments  of  human  personages.  In 
the  fiction  of  Chateaubriand  and  of  Victor 
Hugo,  of  George  Sand,  of  Balzac,  of  Mau- 
passant, of  Pierre  Loti,  there  is  everywhere 
to  be  traced  that  influence  which  was  so  ap- 
parent in  the  "  New  Heloise." 


THE  SETTING  161 

In  England  and  America  the  in-  „ 

Eighteenth 

direct  influence  of  Rousseau  has  century 

Instances : 

been  scarcely  less  significant.  In  Detoe- 
the  earlier  part  of  the  eighteenth  century 
there  is  almost  no  landscape  setting  worthy 
of  the  name.  Scarcely  more  than  half  a 
dozen  passages  describing  natural  scenery  in 
the  modern  spirit  will  occur  to  the  memory 
of  the  reader  of  Defoe.  One  of  the  most 
striking  isolated  instances  of  the  effective  use 
of  setting  is  that  passage  in  Defoe's  "  Cap- 
tain Singleton  "  which  describes,  in  terms 
that  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  might  have  en- 
vied, a  struggle  with  African  wild  beasts  on 
"  one  windy  tempestuous  night :  "  — 

"  During  our  encampment  here  we  had  several  adven- 
tures with  the  ravenous  creatures  of  that  country ;  and 
had  not  our  fire  been  always  kept  burning,  I  question 
much  whether  all  our  fence,  though  we  strengthened  it 
afterwards  with  twelve  or  fourteen  rows  of  stakes  or 
more,  would  have  kept  us  secure.  It  was  always  in 
the  night  that  we  had  the  disturbance  of  them,  and 
sometimes  they  came  in  such  multitudes  that  we 
thought  all  the  lions  and  tigers  and  leopards  and 
wolves  of  Africa  were  come  together  to  attack  us.  One 
night,  being  clear  moonshine,  one  of  our  men  being 
upon  the  watch,  told  us  he  verily  believed  he  saw  ten 
thousand  wild  creatures  of  one  sort  or  another  pass  by 
our  little  camp  ;  and  as  soon  as  ever  they  saw  the  fire 


162  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

they  sheered  off,  but  were  sure  to  howl  or  roar,  ol 
whatever  it  was,  when  they  were  past. 

"  The  music  of  their  voices  was  very  far  from  being 
pleasant  to  us,  and  sometimes  would  be  so  very  disturb- 
ing that  we  could  not  sleep  for  it ;  and  often  our  senti- 
nels would  call  us  that  were  awake  to  come  and  look  at 
them.  It  was  one  windy  tempestuous  night,  after  a 
very  rainy  day,  that  we  were  indeed  all  called  up ;  for 
such  innumerable  numbers  of  devilish  creatures  came 
about  us  that  our  watch  really  thought  they  would 
attack  us.  They  would  not  come  on  the  side  where 
the  fire  was ;  and  though  we  thought  ourselves  secure 
everywhere  else,  yet  we  all  got  up,  and  took  to  our 
arms.  The  moon  was  near  the  full,  but  the  air  full  of 
flying  clouds,  and  a  strange  hurricane  of  wind  to  add 
to  the  terror  of  the  night ;  when,  looking  on  the  back 
part  of  our  camp,  I  thought  I  saw  a  creature  within 
our  fortification,  and  so  indeed  he  was,  except  his 
haunches  ;  for  he  had  taken  a  running  leap,  I  suppose, 
and  with  all  his  might  had  thrown  himself  clear  over  our 
palisadoes,  except  one  strong  pile,  which  stood  higher 
than  the  rest,  and  which  had  caught  hold  of  him,  and 
by  his  weight  he  had  hanged  himself  upon  it,  the  spike 
of  the  pile  running  into  his  hinder-haunch  or  thigh,  on 
the  inside,  and  by  that  he  hung  growling  and  biting 
the  wood  for  rage.  I  snatched  up  a  lance  from  one  of 
the  negroes  that  stood  just  by  me,  and,  running  to  him, 
struck  it  three  or  four  times  into  him,  and  despatched 
him." 

Mrg  Fielding  has  some  admirable  par- 

agraphs of  out-door  description,  but 
ordinarily,  even  in  Fielding's  novels,  it  rains 


THE  SETTING  163 

only  to  delay  the  coach,  and  not  to  affect  or 
symbolize  the  sentiments  of  the  passengers. 
But  with  the  rise  of  the  romantic  school  at 
the  end  of  the  century  came  an  inrush  of  sen- 
timent regarding  natural  scenery.  In  such  a 
typical  novel  of  this  school  as  Anne  Rad- 
cliffe's  "  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  hero  and 
heroine  alike  tremble  into  tears  under  the 
slightest  provocation  of  the  landscape.  Here 
are  four  representative  passages  :  — 

"  It  was  one  of  Emily's  earliest  pleasures  to  ramble 
among  the  scenes  of  nature ;  nor  was  it  in  the  soft  and 
glowing  landscape  that  she  most  delighted ;  she  loved 
more  the  wild  wood-walks  that  skirted  the  mountain  ; 
and  still  more  the  mountain's  stupendous  recesses, 
where  the  silence  and  grandeur  of  solitude  impressed 
a  sacred  awe  upon  her  heart,  and  lifted  her  thoughts 
to  the  God  of  Heaven  and  Earth.  In  scenes  like  these 
she  would  often  linger  alone,  wrapped  in  a  melancholy 
charm,  till  the  last  gleam  of  day  faded  from  the  west ; 
till  the  lonely  sound  of  a  sheep-bell,  or  the  distant 
barking  of  a  watch-dog,  was  all  that  broke  the  stillness 
of  the  evening.  Then  the  gloom  of  the  woods ;  the 
trembling  of  their  leaves,  at  intervals,  in  the  breeze  ; 
the  bat,  flitting  in  the  twilight ;  the  cottage  lights,  now 
seen,  and  now  lost  —  were  circumstances  that  awak- 
ened her  mind  into  effort,  and  led  to  enthusiasm  and 
poetry." 

"The  dawn,  which  softened  the  scenery  with  ite 


164  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

peculiar  gray  tint,  now  dispersed,  and  Emily  watched 
the  progress  of  the  day,  first  trembling  on  the  tops  of 
the  highest  cliffs,  then  touching  them  with  splendid 
light,  while  their  sides  and  the  vale  below  were  still 
wrapped  in  dewy  mist.  Meanwhile  the  sullen  gray  of 
the  eastern  clouds  began  to  blush,  then  to  redden,  and 
then  to  glow  with  a  thousand  colors,  till  the  golden 
light  darted  over  all  the  air,  touched  the  lower  points 
of  the  mountain's  brow,  and  glanced  in  long  sloping 
beams  upon  the  valley  and  its  stream.  All  nature 
seemed  to  have  awakened  from  death  into  life.  The 
spirit  of  St.  Aubert  was  renovated.  His  heart  was 
full ;  he  wept,  and  his  thoughts  ascended  to  the  great 
Creator." 


"  From  Beaujeau  the  road  had  constantly  ascended, 
conducting  the  travellers  into  the  higher  regions  of  the 
air,  where  immense  glaciers  exhibited  their  frozen  hor- 
rors, and  eternal  snow  whitened  the  summits  of  the 
mountains.  They  often  paused  to  contemplate  these 
stupendous  scenes,  and,  seated  on  some  wild  cliff,  where 
only  the  ilex  or  the  larch  could  flourish,  looked  over 
dark  forests  of  fir,  and  precipices  where  human  foot 
had  never  wandered,  into  the  glen  —  so  deep,  that  the 
thunder  of  the  torrent,  which  was  seen  to  foam  along 
the  bottom,  was  scarcely  heard  to  murmur.  Over 
these  crags  rose  others  of  stupendous  height  and  fan- 
tastic shape ;  some  shooting  into  cones,  others  impend- 
ing far  over  their  base,  in  huge  masses  of  granite,  along 
whose  broken  ridges  was  often  lodged  a  weight  of  snow, 
that,  trembling  even  to  the  vibration  of  a  sound,  threat- 
ened to  bear  destruction  in  its  course  to  the  vale 


THE  SETTING  165 

Around,  on  every  side  far  as  the  eye  could  penetrate, 
were  seen  only  forms  of  grandeur  —  the  long  perspec- 
tive of  mountain-tops,  tinged  with  ethereal  blue,  or 
white  with  snow ;  valleys  of  ice  and  forests  of  gloomy 
fir.  The  serenity  and  clearness  of  the  air  in  these  high, 
regions  were  particularly  delightful  to  the  travellers ; 
it  seemed  to  inspire  them  with  a  finer  spirit,  and  dif- 
fused an  indescribable  complacency  over  their  minds. 
They  had  no  words  to  express  the  sublime  emotions 
they  felt.  A  solemn  expression  characterized  the  feel- 
ings of  St.  Aubert ;  tears  often  came  to  his  eyes,  and 
he  frequently  walked  away  from  his  companions." 

"  In  the  cool  of  the  evening,  the  party  embarked  in 
Montoni's  gondola,  and  rowed  out  upon  the  sea.  The 
*ed  glow  of  sunset  still  touched  the  waves,  and  lingered 
in  the  west,  where  the  melancholy  gleam  seemed  slowly 
expiring,  while  the  dark  blue  of  the  upper  ether  began 
to  twinkle  with  stars.  Emily  sat,  given  up  to  pensive 
and  sweet  emotions.  The  smoothness  of  the  water 
over  which  she  glided,  its  reflected  images  —  a  new 
heaven  and  trembling  stars  below  the  waves,  with 
shadowy  outlines  of  towers  and  porticoes  —  conspired 
with  the  stillness  of  the  hour,  interrupted  only  by  the 
passing  wave  or  the  notes  of  distant  music,  to  raise 
those  emotions  to  enthusiasm.  As  she  listened  to  the 
measured  sound  of  the  oars,  and  to  the  remote  war- 
blings  that  came  in  the  breeze,  her  softened  mind 
returned  to  the  memory  of  St.  Aubert,  and  to  Valan- 
court,  and  tears  stole  to  her  eyes." 

In   the   earlier   decades   of   the  nineteenth 
nineteenth    century   this    sort    of  oentur* 


166  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

sentiment  was  left  mainly  to  the  poets.  The 
use  of  landscape  as  an  aid  in  powerful  emo- 
tional effects  begins  again,  however,  with 
Dickens.  It  is  noticeably  rare  in  Thackeray, 
although  here  and  there  in  single  phrases 
and  sentences  he  introduces  the  element  of 
landscape  with  singularly  delicate  effect. 
But  George  Eliot,  William  Black,  and  Thomas 
Hardy  have  written  whole  chapters,  one  may 
almost  say  books,  drenched  with  their  feel- 
ing for  the  natural  landscape  against  which 
their  fictitious  personages  are  relieved.  In 
the  stories  of  Ouida,  and  in  some  of  the 
sketches  of  Lafcadio  Hearn,  the  landscape 
sense  runs  riot.  But  if  rightly  subordinated 
to  the  human  element,  as  is  almost  always 
the  case  in  the  novels  of  Turgenieff,  or  in 
the  stories  of  Mr.  Kipling  or  Miss  Jewett,  it 
becomes  an  element  of  extraordinary  power 
and  charm. 

Sometimes  the  landscape  seem? 

Used  for 

vividness.  to  be  used  for  mere  vividness,  for 
giving  us  a  clearer  vision  of  the  characters 
at  some  crisis  of  the  story,  or  simply  for 
painting  an  attractive  picture.  Here  are  a 
few  sentences  from  James  Lane  Allen's 
"  The  Choir  Invisible  "  which  are  designed 


THE  SETTING  167 

apparently  to  do  nothing  more  than  give  us 
an  intimate  sense  of  the  physical  presence 
of  the  things  and  the  persons  described. 

"  Near  the  door  stood  a  walnut  tree  with  widespread- 
ing  branches  wearing  the  fresh  plumes  of  late  May, 
plumes  that  hung  down  over  the  door  and  across  the 
windows,  suffusing  the  interior  with  a  soft  twilight  of 
green  and  brown  shadows.  A  shaft  of  sunbeams  pene- 
trating a  crevice  fell  on  the  white  neck  of  a  yellow  col- 
lie that  lay  on  the  ground  with  his  head  on  his  paws, 
his  eyes  fixed  reproachfully  on  the  heels  of  the  horse 
outside,  his  ears  turned  back  towards  his  master.  Be- 
side him  a  box  had  been  kicked  over :  tools  and  shoes 
scattered.  A  faint  line  of  blue  smoke  sagged  from  the 
dying  coals  of  the  forge  towards  the  door,  creeping 
across  the  anvil  bright  as  if  tipped  with  silver.  And 
in  one  of  the  darkest  corners  of  the  shop,  near  a  bucket 
of  water  in  which  floated  a  huge  brown  gourd,  Peter 
and  John  sat  on  a  bench  while  the  story  of  O'Bannon'a 
mischief-making  was  begun  and  finished.  It  was  told 
by  Peter  with  much  cordial  rubbing  of  his  elbows  in 
the  palms  of  his  hands  and  much  light-hearted  smooth- 
ing of  his  apron  over  his  knees.  At  times  a  cloud, 
passing  beneath  the  sun,  threw  the  shop  into  heavier 
shadow ;  and  then  the  schoolmaster's  dark  figure  faded 
into  the  tone  of  the  sooty  wall  behind  him  and  only  his 
face,  with  the  contrast  of  its  white  linen  collar  below 
and  the  bare  discernible  lights  of  his  auburn  hair  above 

—  his  face  proud,  resolute,  astounded,  pallid,  suffering 

—  started  out  of  the  gloom  like  a  portrait  from  an  old 
canvas." 


168  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

Sometimes  this  vividness  of  effect 

Contrast          .  ,  .  . 

is  secured  by  the  familiar  artistic 
principle  of  contrast.  The  physical  weari- 
ness of  the  figure  in  Millet's  picture  of  "  The 
Sower  "  gains  in  poignancy  because  of  the 
infinite  peace  of  the  evening  landscape  against 
which  the  figure  is  outlined.  In  similar  fash- 
ion, in  Mr.  Hardy's  "  The  Return  of  the  Na- 
tive/' what  a  Rembrandt-like  feeling  for  light 
and  shade  is  in  that  gambling  scene  on  the 
heath  when  the  two  men  throw  dice  by  the 
light  of  glow-worms  !  "  The  Choir  Invisible  " 
may  be  used  for  another  illustration.  The 
second  chapter  introduces  Mrs.  Falconer  at 
work  in  her  frontier  garden,  and  these  lines 
present  the  singular  contrast  between  the 
woman  and  her  surroundings  :  — 

"From  every  direction  the  forest  appeared  to  be 
rushing  in  upon  that  perilous  little  reef  of  a  clearing 
—  that  unsheltered  island  of  human  life,  newly  dis- 
playing itself  amid  the  ancient,  blood-flecked,  horror- 
haunted  sea  of  woods.  And  shipwrecked  on  this 
island,  tossed  to  it  by  one  of  the  long  tidal  waves  of 
history,  there  to  remain  in  exile  from  the  manners, 
the  refinement,  the  ease,  the  society  to  which  she  had 
always  been  accustomed,  this  remarkable  gentle-woman." 

The  principle  of  artistic  harmony 
is  utilized  at  least  as  frequently  as 


THE  SETTING  169 

that  of  contrast.  The  Wordsworthian  shep. 
herd  seems  to  be,  as  Wordsworth  indeed  usu- 
ally conceives  him,  a  part  of  the  very  hills 
where  his  sheep  are  pastured.  Cooper's  In- 
dians and  frontiersmen  blend  into  his  forest 
backgrounds  with  a  harmony  that  is  the  re- 
sult of  true  artistic  instinct.  Let  us  take 
additional  illustrations  from  "  The  Choir  In- 
visible : "  — 

"  And  then  more  dreadful  years  and  still  sadder 
times ;  as  when  one  morning  towards  daybreak,  by  the 
edge  of  a  darker  forest  draped  with  snow  where  the 
frozen  dead  lay  thick,  they  found  an  officer's  hat  half 
filled  with  snow,  and  near  by,  her  father  fallen  face 
downward." 

Or  this  :  — 

"  She  quickly  dropped  her  head  again ;  she  shifted 
her  position ;  a  band  seemed  to  tighten  around  her 
throat ;  until,  in  a  voice  hardly  to  be  heard,  she  mur- 
mured falteringly  :  '  I  have  promised  to  marry  Joseph.' 
He  did  not  speak  or  move,  but  continued  to  stand  lean- 
ing against  the  lintel  of  the  doorway,  looking  down  on 
her.  The  color  was  fading  from  the  west,  leaving  it 
ashen  white.  And  so  standing  in  the  dying  radiance, 
he  saw  the  long  bright  day  of  his  young  hope  come 
to  its  close ;  he  drained  to  its  dregs  his  cup  of  bitter- 
ness she  had  prepared  for  him  ;  learned  his  first  lesson 
in  the  victory  of  little  things  over  the  larger  purposes 
of  life,  over  the  nobler  planning ;  bit  the  dust  of  the 
heart's  first  defeat  and  tragedy." 


170  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

Or  again :  — 

"  The  next  morning  the  parson,  standing  a  white  cold 
shepherd  before  his  chilly  wilderness  flock,  preached  a 
sermon  from  the  text :  '  I  shall  go  softly  all  my  years.' 
While  the  heads  of  the  rest  were  howed  during  the  last 
moments  of  prayer,  she  rose  and  slipped  out.  '  Yes,' 
she  said  to  herself,  gathering  her  veil  closely  about  her 
face  as  she  alighted  at  the  door  of  her  house  and  the 
withered  leaves  of  November  were  whirled  fiercely 
about  her  feet,  '  I  shall  go  softly  all  my  years.'  " 

It  will  be  observed  that  in  these 

Influencing 

thecharac-  passages  irom  Mr.  Allen,  as  in 
countless  similar  passages  from  fic- 
tion-writers of  our  generation,  the  landscape 
setting  actually  influences  the  moods  of  his 
characters,  and  in  this  way  plays  no  incon- 
siderable role  in  the  evolution  of  the  plot. 
M.  Brunetiere,  in  a  well  known  critical 
essay,  has  brought  M.  Zola  to  task  for  pre- 
tending that  the  varying  color  in  the  water 
in  the  gutter  on  different  mornings,  should 
influence  the  action  of  his  hero,  Coupeau. 
But  the  principle  which  is  here  illustrated 
in  its  extreme  form  is  one  that  cannot  be 
neglected  in  a  study  of  present-day  fiction. 
Let  us  choose  a  more  sympathetic  instance 
of  the  influence  of  landscape  on  character. 
It  shall  be  from  Mr.  James  Shorthouse's 
"  Blanche,  Lady  Falaise  :  "  — 


THE  SETTING  171 

"They  came  back  down  the  steep  path  over  the 
strewn  and  withered  leaves.  The  rain  clouds  were 
sweeping  from  the  valley  across  the  sun,  and  the  bare- 
ness and  chill  of  winter  was  on  the  woods  and  on  the 
blackened  grass.  A  blank  depression  and  presentiment 
settled  down  upon  Blanche's  spirit.  It  seemed  to  her 
as  if  she  were  walking  in  a  troubled  nightmare,  amid 
difficulties  which  were  absurd,  yet  from  which  she  was 
utterly  unable  to  extricate  herself.  It  seemed  to  her, 
at  least  for  the  moment,  that  in  all  the  illimitable  uni- 
verse, limitless  as  the  sky  and  plain  before  them,  there 
was  truly  '  no  other  girl ; '  that  in  some  mysterious  way, 
struggle  as  she  might,  contemptuous  as  she  might  out- 
wardly seem,  her  fate  was  irrevocably  bound  up  with 
his." 

Here  is  a  longer  and  most  significant  pas- 
sage from  the  same  story  :  — 

"  He  threw  away  his  half  finished  cigar,  and  placed 
himself  by  her  side,  and  they  walked  up  the  woodland 
path  that  wound  round  the  paddock.  George  Falaise 
stood  looking  at  them  for  a  moment  as  they  moved  up 
the  path  —  but  only  for  a  moment.  Then  he  turned 
away  and  moved  towards  the  seat  before  the  bay- 
window  of  the  drawing-room  —  the  same  seat  on  which 
he  had  sat  that  first  morning  when  Blanche  had  come 
out  to  him.  There  he  sat  down  to  finish  his  cigar. 

"  The  winter  sun,  setting  behind  the  oak  woods  on 
the  other  side  of  the  paddock,  cast  a  kind  of  false  and 
cold  halo  over  the  place  where  he  sat  and  over  the 
front  of  the  house.  He  felt  deserted  and  neglected. 
He  hated  this  man.  The  cold  winter  sky,  clear  and 
soft  and  delicate  though  it  was,  out  of  the  cloud  tissues 


172  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

of  which  happy  men  might  weave  fairy  colored  wreaths, 
seemed  to  him  dun  and  chill. 

"  For  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  perhaps  he  had  sat 
there.  The  rhythm  of  the  breeze  through  the  sur- 
rounding woods  soothed  him  as  did  the  narcotic  influ- 
ence of  his  cigar,  when  the  setting  sun,  just  sinking 
behind  the  woods,  cast  a  sudden  glow  of  dying  bril- 
liancy over  the  place,  and  above,  over  his  head,  a  golden 
haze  of  glory  spread  itself,  beneath  the  rain  clouds  and 
the  deep  winter  sky.  He  looked  up  suddenly,  and 
they  were  coming  back.  He  rose,  threw  away  the  end 
of  his  cigar,  and  went  toward  them. 

"  Damerle  evidently  had  been  talking  well.  What- 
ever he  was  he  was  no  hypocrite.  Whatever  he  felt 
for  the  moment  he  really  felt.  The  climate,  physical 
and  mental,  of  Clyston  St.  Fay  affected  him,  with  an 
intensity  which  it  would  not  have  exerted  upon  another 
man  less  easily  affected  in  other  ways.  George  Falaise 
even,  who  felt  himself,  so  to  speak,  a  stranger  and  a 
pilgrim  everywhere  else  ;  to  whom  this  silent  village, 
this  home  where  Blanche  lived,  was  the  only  spot  upon 
earth,  so  far  as  he  knew  the  earth,  where  he  seemed 
really  to  breathe  —  even  he  did  not  feel  this  excited 
revulsion  and  contrast  of  feeling  and  enthusiasm. 
Damerle  had  been  speaking  of  high  and  sacred  things 
and  of  the  work  which  lay  before  them,  for  the  girl's 
face  was  flushed,  and  her  whole  being  and  nature 
seemed  instinct  with  a  strange  happiness  and  beauty 
which  was  not  of  earth.  Never  before,  at  any  time, 
and  most  surely  never  afterwards,  did  George  Falaise 
see  her  look  like  that,  —  the  departing  flash  of  sunset 
around  her,  the  set  purpose  of  devotion,  the  glory  of 


THE  SETTING  173 

unselfish  love,  the  beauty  which  God  gave  to  woman, 
all  around  her  for  a  moment  as  they  came  up  the 
path. 

"  The  angry,  disappointed,  perturbed  spirit  left  him 
at  this  sight.  All  self-seeking,  all  self  even,  was  lost 
in  delight.  He  felt,  in  spite  of  himself,  a  supreme 
stillness  and  calm,  a  sense  of  result,  of  something,  long 
wished  for,  being  gained.  It  is  a  great  mystery  why 
such  things  are ;  but  to  him,  to  whom  so  much  had 
been  given,  had  been  added  also  the  priceless  gift  of 
unselfish  love.  To  what  issue  can  love  tend  but  to  the 
happiness  of  the  loved  ?  The  perfect  vision  that  awaits 
love  must  surely  be  this.  At  this  happy  moment,  as 
it  seems  to  me,  many  of  us  might  well  envy  him  ;  yet 
at  that  moment  the  one  thing  in  the  wide  universe  that 
was  denied  him  was  the  one  thing  upon  which  his  heart 
was  set. 

"  As  they  came  up  the  path  the  sunset  glow  faded 
from  the  sky  above,  and  what  a  moment  before  had 
been  a  glory  of  yellow  light  was  now  gray  and  dark. 
They  went  back  into  the  house." 

A  more  familiar  illustration  is  in  George 
Meredith's  "  Richard  Feverel,"  where  the 
great  storm  scene  towards  the  close  of  the 
story  develops  a  new  sentiment  in  the  hero 
and  affects  profoundly  the  dramatic  situa- 
tion. Mr.  Thomas  Hardy,  in  his  pantheistic 
interpretation  of  nature,  finds  it  still  easier 
to  emphasize  the  intimate  relation  of  his 
characters  with  their  natural  surroundings, 


174  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

and  over  and  over  again  in  his  novels  lie  has 
made  nature  itself  take  a  hand  in  the  evolu- 
tion of  the  plot. 

"  Amid  the  oozing  fatness  and  warm  ferments  of 
Froom  Vale,  at  a  season  when  the  rush  of  juices  could 
almost  be  heard  below  the  hiss  of  fertilization,  it  was 
impossible  that  the  most  fanciful  love  should  not  grow 
passionate.  The  ready  hearts  existing  there  were  im- 
pregnated by  their  surroundings." 

Tess  of  the  Z>'  Urbervilles. 

Determining  ^  i§  even  possible  to  assert  that 
the  incidents.  ^  setting  not  only  affects  the 

situations  of  the  novelist,  but  that  it  fre- 
quently determines  the  nature  of  the  inci- 
dents that  are  to  take  place.  This  is  pecu- 
liarly true,  of  course,  in  the  novels  which  deal 
primarily  with  some  occupation  or  handi- 
craft. But  even  in  novels  of  adventure,  the 
novelist  is  compelled  by  the  very  force  of 
circumstances  to  keep  close  to  mere  adven- 
ture. Tn  a  book  like  "  A  Gentleman  of 
France  "  one  is  tempted  to  think  that  any- 
thing may  happen,  but  after  all  only  thos( 
things  may  happen  there  which  are  pertinent 
to  the  road,  the  camp,  or  the  court  during 
the  progress  of  a  particular  campaign.  In 
other  words,  the  writer  of  adventure,  who  is 


THE  SETTING  175 

apparently  enjoying  such  unhampered  free- 
dom, is  in  reality  working  within  closely 
drawn  lines  of  limitation  ;  he  is  bound  by 
the  very  terms  of  his  implied  contract  with 
his  readers  to  supply  them  with  adventure 
and  with  little  more.  We  know  pretty  well, 
therefore,  what  is  going  to  happen.  It  is  in 
novels  like  "  A  Nest  of  Nobles,"  or  "  Anna 
Karenina,"  or  "Adam  Bede,"  or  "  The  Choir 
Invisible,"  that  we  cannot  tell  what  will  hap- 
pen, because  anything  may  happen. 

Finally,  it  is  the  setting  of  a  story  Olving  Mlty 
which  often  gives  the  deepest  unity  to  the  book< 
to  the  work  as  a  whole.  The  setting  is  used 
to  emphasize  the  fundamental  idea  of  the 
book,  to  accentuate  the  theme,  to  bring  all 
the  characters  of  the  story  into  proper  per- 
spective. In  a  railway  novel  the  scream  of 
the  whistle  may  be  heard  in  every  chapter. 
The  characters  of  the  story,  from  the  presi- 
dent of  a  great  system  down  to  the  humblest 
employee,  all  stand  in  certain  definite  rela- 
tions to  "  the  road."  It  is  "  the  road  "  whicl 
affects  their  feelings,  their  ambitions,  their  ac- 
tions, and  one  need  not  have  the  anthropo- 
morphic imagination  of  Zola  to  conceive  of  a 
railway  as  a  monster,  either  beneficent  or  ma- 


176  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

lign,  which  dominates  the  individual  fate  of 
every  personage  in  such  a  novel.  But  in  truth 
it  is  Zola  who  has  given  to  our  generation  the 
most  impressive  examples  of  this  myth-mak- 
ing instinct,  which  gives  institutions  like  the 
department  store,  occupations  like  mining  or 
farming,  great  campaigns  like  the  Franco- 
Prussian  War,  great  cities  like  Rome  and 
Paris,  each  a  personality  of  its  own.  In  such 
cases  one  may  freely  grant  that  the  setting 
is  distorted,  thrown  into  unnatural  propor- 
tions, and  frequently  depicted  with  a  morbid 
imagination  that  recalls  the  worst  obsessions 
of  romanticism.  Indeed,  it  is  largely  because 
of  this  element  in  his  work  that  Zola  has 
been  called  by  many  keen  critics  essentially 
romantic  rather  than  realistic.  But  what- 
ever the  justice  of  this  criticism,  there  is  no 
denying  that  beyond  most  other  novelists  of 
our  own  day  he  has  succeeded  in  making  the 
setting  of  his  novels  reveal  the  essential 
unity  of  the  book.  That  germinal  idea 
which  first  stimulated  the  creative  imagina- 
tion of  the  author  remains  with  the  reader  as 
a  haunting  impression  long  after  the  persons 
and  the  action  of  the  tale  have  faded  from 
the  memory. 


CHAPTER  VIH 

THE   FICTION-WRITER 

"  Quelle  que  soit  la  formule,  il  n'y  a  jamais  au  fond  del 
usuvres  que  ce  que  les  homines  y  mettent." 

F.  BRCNETIERE,  Le  Boman  Naturaliste. 

"  Every  artist  is  a  thinker,  whether  he  knows  it  or  not ;  and 
ultimately  no  artist  will  be  found  greater  as  an  artist  than  he 
was  as  a  thinker."  DAVID  MASSON,  British  Novelists. 

' '  There  is  one  point  at  which  the  moral  sense  and  the  artistic 
sense  lie  very  near  together ;  that  is  in  the  light  of  the  very 
obvious  truth  that  the  deepest  quality  of  a  work  of  art  will 
always  be  the  quality  of  the  mind  of  the  producer.  In  propor- 
tion as  that  intelligence  is  fine  will  the  novel,  the  picture,  the 
statue  partake  of  the  substance  of  beauty  and  truth." 

HENRY  JAMES,  The  Art  of  Fiction. 

WE  are  entering  once  more  upon  A  new  phase 
a  new  phase  of  our  subject.  In  the  Ol  toe  8UbJeot 
last  three  chapters  we  have  been  studying 
the  materials,  whether  of  character  or  plot 
or  setting,  which  are  at  the  disposition  of 
the  literary  artist.  We  are  now  to  study 
the  use  made  of  these  materials  by  individual 
men.  What  we  have  hitherto  done  may  be 
likened  to  an  investigation  of  the  general 


178  A  STUDY  OF  PROSK  FICTION 

relations  of  the  art  of  painting,  let  us  say.,  ta 
the  other  arts  ;  then,  applying  a  closer  scru- 
tiny, we  have  watched  the  various  colors 
upon  the  palette  of  the  painter,  and  have 
noted  some  of  the  technical  processes  by 
means  of  which  these  pigments  are  utilized. 
We  have  now  to  scrutinize  the  painter  him- 
self. 

For   after   all,  the    use   of    the 

The  man  be-  .   .        .  , 

hind  the  materials  or  any  art  depends  upon 
the  man  who  employs  them.  The 
words  of  the  great  French  critic,  quoted  as 
the  first  motto  for  this  chapter,  have  been 
repeated  in  various  forms  by  most  of  the 
writers  who  have  thought  deeply  upon  the 
expression  of  personality  by  means  of  art.  It 
is  conveyed  in  the  famous  formula  "  Art  is  a 
bit  of  nature  seen  through  a  temperament," 
as  well  as  in  the  more  technical  definition 
of  the  writer  on  aesthetics,  that  the  artist  is 
"  the  middle  term  between  content  and  ex- 
pression." Yet  this  interest  in  the  story- 
writer  himself  is  a  more  or  less  modern 
factor  in  the  development  of  fiction.  As  we 
recede  towards  mediaeval  times,  the  fascina- 
tion of  the  story  becomes  increasingly  de- 
pendent upon  the  tale  itself  rather  than 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  179 

upon  the  individuality  of  the  teller ;  and  it 
is  undeniable  that  the  modern  interest  in 
literary  personality  has  its  seamy  side.  Per- 
sonal gossip  about  famous  novelists  has 
often  taken  the  place  of  real  criticism.  No 
details  of  family  history  have  been  consid- 
ered too  sacred  to  be  offered  to  the  public. 
In  an  age  when  a  man  is  scarcely  blamed  for 
selling  his  father's  love-letters  for  hard  cash, 
it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  the  reading  pub- 
lic will  respect  the  reticences  and  reserves  of 
private  life.  And  one  is  forced  to  admit 
that  an  acquaintance  with  a  fiction-writer's 
real  experience  of  men  and  things,  a  famil- 
iarity with  the  more  marked  phases  of  his 
career,  a  knowledge  of  his  friendships  and 
his  politics,  of  the  things  he  hated,  of  the 
books  he  loved,  is  of  great  significance  in 
the  interpretation  of  his  literary  work.  One 
can  scarcely  understand  Balzac's  novels  with- 
out knowing  something  of  Balzac  himself ; 
and  if,  as  Hawthorne  has  reminded  us,  the 
details  of  an  author's  biography  often  hide 
the  man  instead  of  revealing  him,  it  is  never- 
theless true  that  even  in  Hawthorne's  own 
case  a  knowledge  of  his  history  affords  one 
of  the  readiest  modes  of  penetrating  to  the 


180  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

essential  nature  of  his  productions  in  litera* 
ture. 

The  noveiist'8  The  fiction-writer's  use  of  the 
experience,  materials  of  his  art  is  conditioned 
first  by  his  experience.  Experience  provides 
the  starting  point  for  the  work  of  the  con- 
structive imagination ;  it  is  a  pier  sunk  into 
the  solid  earth  from  which  the  arch  is  sprung 
into  the  unknown.  Here  is  a  man  who  pro- 
fesses to  interpret  life  for  us.  Well,  what 
sort  of  life  has  he  himself  known  ?  What 
kind  of  men  and  women  has  it  been  his  lot 
to  encounter  in  his  journey  through  the 
world  ?  Upon  his  answer  to  these  questions 
depends  very  often  his  artistic  verdict  upon 
life  itself ;  that  is,  his  handling  of  the  ele- 
ments of  character  and  action  in  the  fictional 
world  of  his  stories.  It  must  be  borne  in 
mind,  however,  as  we  have  seen  in  a  previ- 
ous chapter,  that  extensive  experience  witlj 
men  and  things  is  often  not  so  important  a 
factor  as  intensive  experience.  '(  The  Story 
of  an  African  Farm  "  can  be  told,  provided 
the  writer  has  insight  and  imagination,  by 
one  who  has  never  left  the  boundaries  of 
the  farm.  It  is  not  the  number  of  men  and 
cities  which  the  novelist  has  seen  that  counts 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  181 

BO  much  as  do  the  eyes  out  of  which  he  has 
looked  and  the  brain  which  has  reflected 
upon  these  observations.  For  experience  at 
best  furnishes  suggestions  rather  than  com- 
plete details.  Said  George  Eliot :  — 

"  It  is  invariably  the  case  that  when  people  discover 
certain  points  of  coincidence  in  a  fiction  with  facts  that 
happen  to  have  come  within  their  knowledge,  they 
believe  themselves  able  to  furnish  a  key  to  the  whole. 
That  is  amusing  enough  to  the  author,  who  knows 
from  what  widely  sundered  portions  of  experience  — 
from  what  a  combination  of  subtle,  shadowy  sugges- 
tions, with  certain  actual  objects  and  events  —  his  story 
has  been  formed." 

In  another  of  her  letters  she  wrote  :  — 

"  There  is  not  a  single  portrait  in  '  Adam  Bede,' 
only  the  suggestions  of  experience  wrought  up  into  new 
combinations." 

Secondly,  the  fiction-writer's  use  The  noveilsf§ 
of  the  materials  of  his  craft  turns  th0ttgllt 
upon  his  thought  as  well  as  upon  his  experi- 
ence. That  is  an  admirable  passage  in  Pro- 
fessor Masson's  book  upon  "  British  Nov- 
elists :  "  "  Every  artist  is  a  thinker,  whether 
he  knows  it  or  not ;  and  ultimately  no  artist 
will  be  found  greater  as  an  artist  than  he 
was  as  a  thinker."  Sidney  Lanier  had  this 
distinction  in  mind  when  he  said  of  Edgar 


182  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

Allan  Poe  that  Poe  did  not  know  enough 
to  be  a  great  poet.  He  did  not  mean  that  a 
man  rises  in  the  capacity  to  produce  poetry 
in  accordance  with  the  amount  of  informa- 
tion he  possesses,  but  rather  that  one  very 
real  test  of  a  poet's  greatness  is  his  power  to 
coordinate  the  results  of  experience,  to  reflect 
upon  the  diverse  phenomena  of  human  life, 
and  to  construct,  at  least  to  some  degree,  a 
philosophical  unity  from  the  confused  im- 
pressions which  life  offers.  Yet  the  artist's 
power  of  thought  is  but  one  of  the  elements 
by  which  his  work  is  to  be  judged.  Dickens 
was  surely  not  a  thinker  in  the  sense  in 
which  George  Eliot  was  a  thinker,  nor  was 
Dumas  a  thinker  in  the  sense  in  which  that 
word  may  be  applied  to  Balzac.  There  is 
here,  as  everywhere  in  the  world  of  art,  a 
variety  of  equipment  and  a  difference  of 
gifts. 

Thirdly,  this  difference  is  never 

Emotion.  .    *  111  •         i 

more  sharply  marked  than  in  the 
varying  capacities  of  different  writers  for  feel- 
ing and  expressing  emotion  —  emotion  called 
forth  by  their  experience  of  life  and  reflection 
upon  its  phenomena.  With  a  certain  type 
of  fiction-writers,  as  for  instance  Trollope, 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  183 

the  capacity  for  emotion  seems  to  be  defec- 
tive, though  this  does  not  prevent  admirable 
work  within  certain  limits.  But  there  is  no 
limitation  which  more  sharply  sets  the  bounds 
for  a  man's  possible  achievement.  In  other 
writers,  of  whom  Dickens  is  the  readiest  ex- 
ample, we  are  constantly  called  upon  to  ob- 
serve the  evidence  of  overwrought  emotion. 
Dickens  is  forever  bidding  us  laugh  or  cry 
where  Trollope  simply  asks  us  to  look.  Fre- 
quently, too,  a  work  of  fiction  seems  to  owe 
its  origin  to  the  author's  instinctive  love  or 
hatred  for  certain  objects.  There  is  where 
the  novel  and  the  eulogy  on  the  one  side, 
and  the  novel  and  the  satire  on  the  other, 
touch  hands.  Here  is  a  striking  illustra- 
tion of  hatred  furnishing  the  artistic  motive 
for  an  extraordinary  masterpiece  of  fiction. 
Flaubert,  writing  of  his  "  Madame  Bovary," 
says  to  a  correspondent :  — 

"  They  think  me  in  love  with  the  real,  whereas  I 
execrate  it :  it  is  out  of  hatred  of  it  that  I  have  under- 
taken this  book.  .  .  .  Do  you  really  believe  that  this 
mean  reality,  whose  reproduction  disgusts  you,  does 
not  make  my  gorge  rise  as  much  as  yours  ?  If  you 
knew  me  better,  you  would  know  that  I  hold  the  every- 
day life  in  detestation.  Personally  I  have  always 
kept  myself  as  far  away  from  it  as  I  could.  But 


184  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

aesthetically  I  wanted  this  time,  and  only  this  time,  tfc 
exhaust  it  thoroughly." 

More  significant  still  is  the  in- 

Imaglnatlon.      n  .      ,  ...  . 

nuence  or  the  artist  s  imagination 
upon  his  use  of  the  materials  of  his  art.  It  is 
a  kind  of  resultant  of  his  experience,  thought, 
and  emotion.  Imagination,  in  the  words  of 
the  Century  Dictionary,  is  "  The  act  or  power 
of  presenting  to  consciousness  objects  other 
than  those  directly  and  at  that  time  produced 
by  the  action  of  the  senses."  Without  at- 
tempting any  arbitrary  classification,  we  may 
note  that  the  imagination  of  the  novelist  is 
constantly  dealing  with  two  classes  of  what 
we  agree  to  call  realities,  and  also  with  two 
classes  of  what  are  commonly  designated  as 
unrealities. 

Dealing  with  What  do  we  mean  by  these 
realities.  « realities "?  In  the  first  place, 
the  imagination  of  the  story-teller  is  con- 
tinually at  work  in  depicting  things  in  the 
physical  world  as  they  are.  The  objects  and 
events  upon  which  the  light  of  the  imagina- 
tion is  turned  are  brought  home  to  the  ev- 
ery-day  consciousness  of  the  matter-of-fact 
reader.  Defoe  does  not  meddle  in  the  least 
with  "  things  as  they  are ; "  he  contents 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  185 

himself  with  painting  exact,  vivid  pictures  of 
them,  without  seeming  to  alter  his  facts  by  a 
hair's  breadth.  He  achieves  a  triumph  of 
the  artistic  imagination ;  but  it  is  equally  a 
triumph  of  that  imagination  when  the  artist 
portrays  the  work  of  those  spiritual  forces 
which  are  not  to  be  apprehended  by  the 
physical  senses.  For  in  dealing  with  the 
mysteries  of  personality,  with  the  profounder 
forces  of  the  spiritual  world,  the  imagination 
is  penetrating  to  another  and  more  veritable 
reality ;  not  what  Hawthorne  called  "  the 
big,  solid,  tangible  unrealities  "  of  the  actual 
world,  but  that  world  which  is  no  less  eter- 
nal for  being  unseen.  I  remember  hearing 
a  clever  woman  say  of  a  man  who  reproached 
a  certain  novelist  for  lack  of  imagination  : 
"  Mr.  A.  forgets  that  imagination  consists  in 
seeing  things  as  they  are,  and  not  as  they 
are  not." 

As  for  "  unrealities,"  there  are  Deallng  wlth 
two  fields  where  the  writer's  im-  unreaUUes- 
agination  is  called  upon  to  display  itself. 
There  is  first  a  mysterious  borderland,  a 
shadowy  half-world,  between  the  realm  of 
unquestioned  spiritual  forces  and  the  realm 
where  the  fear  of  superstition  holds  full  sway. 


186  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

The  novelists  of  the  "  School  of  Terror,"  at 
the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  reveled 
to  their  hearts'  desires  in  this  ghostly  atmos- 
phere of  apparitions,  portents,  spirits,  witches, 
and  devils.  As  mankind  advances  in  intel- 
ligence and  scientific  knowledge,  it  is  con- 
stantly reducing  the  territory  of  the  unknown, 
beating  back  this  frontier  of  darkness  and 
evil.  Many  of  the  phenomena,  therefore, 
which  in  one  generation  would  be  accredited 
to  demoniac  possession,  witchcraft,  or  the 
mysterious  influence  of  other  personalities, 
are  in  a  later  generation,  as  the  history 
of  hypnotism  and  telepathy  so  abundantly 
proves,  capable  of  scientific  demonstration. 
Such  subjects  still  offer  a  tempting  field, 
perhaps  a  field  more  tempting  than  ever  to 
the  imagination  of  the  fiction-writer;  but  the 
theme  itself  becomes  transferred,  with  the 
advance  of  civilization,  from  the  realm  of 
the  unreal  to  the  realm  of  the  real.  And 
finally,  the  imagination  frequently  exhibits 
its  power  in  dealing  with  a  second  variety 
of  the  unreal,  namely,  the  physical  world 
of  things  as  they  are  not.  Nothing  in  the 
work  of  Victor  Hugo  or  of  Dickens  is  more 
impressive  and  masterful  than  the  "  pathetic 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  187 

fallacy "  by  means  of  which  they  love  to 
distort  our  vision  of  the  physical  world, 
and  seem  to  make  its  external  phenomena 
and  its  secret  forces  sympathize  with  the 
spirit  and  the  fate  of  their  human  char- 
acters. Such  passages  do  violence,  indeed, 
to  the  demonstrable  truth  of  fact,  but  they 
often  succeed  in  interpreting  a  higher  truth 
of  spiritual  emotion,  —  the  "  truth  of  the 
human  heart,"  which  Hawthorne  thought  it 
the  function  of  the  romancer  to  express. 

These  illustrations  of  the  four 
fields  in  which  the  imagination  dis-  stages  <* 
plays  itself  will  possibly  throw 
some  light  upon  Mr.  Brander  Matthews's 
frequently  discussed  theory  concerning  the 
four  stages  in  the  evolution  of  fiction.  He 
has  remarked  with  indisputable  acuteness 
that  the  development  of  fiction  has  been  from 
"  the  Impossible  to  the  Improbable,  thence 
to  the  Probable,  and  finally  to  the  Inevita- 
ble." It  is  a  convenient  formula  to  bear  in 
mind;  but  one  must  also  remember  that  fic- 
tion displays  a  constant  tendency  towards 
reversion  to  primitive  types,  and  that  in  any 
stage  of  the  development  of  literature,  writ- 
ers may  arise  who  rely  for  their  power  upon 


188  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

modes  of  thought  and  feeling  which  the  race 
has  apparently  outgrown. 
Limitations  of  In  studying  the  artistic  produc- 
personaiity.  tiveness  of  any  man,  it  is  necessary 
to  take  into  account  the  limitations  of  his 
personality.  Browning's  line,  "  and  thus  we 
half-men  struggle,"  may  as  pertinently  be 
applied  to  the  novelist  as  to  any  other  mem- 
ber of  the  human  family.  Those  limitations 
of  thought,  experience,  and  emotion  which 
have  just  been  discussed,  as  well  as  the  de- 
ficiencies in  moral  insight  which  we  have  still 
to  notice,  must  always  be  set  down  on  the 
debit  side  of  an  author's  real  accomplish- 
ment. Even  if  he  have  the  very  highest  en- 
dowment in  the  range  of  activities  already 
indicated,  he  may  lack  that  final  creative  im- 
pulse, that  surplusage  of  vitality,  which  drives 
him  to  'the  making  of  a  genuine  book. 
Limitations  No  less  sharply  defined  limita- 
01  the  age.  ^Qng  are  to  ke  ^aced  in  the  in- 
fluence of  the  author's  generation  upon  his 
own  productiveness.  The  history  of  litera- 
ture furnishes  abundant  illustration  of  authors 
born  out  of  due  time.  Matthew  Arnold's 
well  known  criticism  of  the  poet  Gray  turns 
not  only  upon  the  fact  that  Gray  "never 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  189' 

spoke  out,"  but  upon  the  causes  that  un- 
derlay this  fact;  namely,  the  influence  of 
a  prosaic  age  upon  the  sensitive  mind  of 
the  academic  poet.  There  have  been  many 
belated  romanticists  like  Cervantes,  belated 
Elizabethans  like  Charles  Lamb,  and  few  of 
them  have  been  able  to  say  as  Lamb  did  so 
cheerily  :  "  Hang  the  age  !  I  '11  write  for 
antiquity."  It  is  only  a  rarely  endowed  in- 
telligence that  is  thus  able  to  make  its  own 
choice  of  company.  Ordinarily,  a  man  is 
forced  to  speak  the  speech  and  think  the 
thoughts  of  his  own  generation ;  and  a 
novel-writer,  let  us  say  in  France,  in  the 
full  tide  of  the  scientific  impulse  of  the 
seventies,  finds  it  quite  impossible  to  com- 
pose such  books  as  he  might  have  written 
had  he  been  born  in  the  romantic  generation 
of  the  thirties. 

And  every  writer,  furthermore,  The  novelist's 
has  a  special  public,  —  provided  he  »PeolalPul)Uo- 
be  lucky  enough  to  have  any  public  at  all, 
—  and  this  public  soon  develops  a  peculiar 
capacity  for  requiring  from  the  novelist  a 
certain  product,  and  no  other.  It  is  in  vain 
for  men  like  Defoe  and  Stockton  to  write 
books  differing  essentially  from  those  by 


190  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

which  their  first  and  great  reputation  was 
won.  Some  writers  grow  cynical  under  this 
enforced  duty  to  produce  a  single  kind  of 
composition,  and  it  has  not  infrequently 
happened  that  while  the  author's  popular 
reputation  has  been  sustained  by  works 
which  he  himself  views  in  the  light  of  "  pot- 
boilers "  pure  and  simple,  he  has  found  his 
deepest  artistic  satisfaction  in  producing  a 
limited  amount  of  work  appealing  to  the 
most  fastidious  taste.  There  died  not  long 
ago  a  German  artist  who  supported  his  fam- 
ily by  painting  comic  little  cherubic  nudi- 
ties, and  satisfied  his  real  artistic  cravings, 
meantime,  by  painting  crucifixions  which 
the  public  never  cared  to  buy.  This  is  only 
an  extreme  instance  of  a  distinction  which 
affects  more  or  less  directly  the  output  of 
every  novelist  who  works  for  the  public. 
After  he  has  become  widely  known,  there 
is  a  definite  commercial  demand  that  he 
should  turn  out  work  in  a  particular  vein, 
and  he  departs  from  it  at  his  peril.  Thack- 
eray is  not  the  only  famous  British  novelist 
who  has  complained  of  the  limitations  en- 
forced by  the  British  Public  upon  the  free 
presentation  of  the  facts  of  life.  Yet  it  ia 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  191 

doubtless  better  that  the  British  Public 
should  warn  a  novelist  that  he  must  not 
trespass  upon  a  certain  territory,  than  that 
it  should  order  him  to  confine  himself  to 
questionable  topics  if  he  would  satisfy  the 
popular  taste.  After  all,  those  writers  are 
not  the  least  fortunate  who,  like  Jane  Aus- 
ten and  Oliver  Goldsmith,  have  written  mas- 
terpieces and  quietly  put  them  away  in  the 
drawer,  leaving  it  to  others,  after  an  inter- 
val of  years,  to  discover  that  these  produc- 
tions were  masterpieces.  No  doubt  it  seemed 
at  the  moment  as  if  "  The  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field  "  and  "Pride  and  Prejudice"  represented 
wasted  time  and  effort.  But  work  done  in 
this  tranquil  fashion  is  often  surer  of  immor- 
tality than  the  novel  which  is  "  syndicated " 
from  one  end  of  the  country  to  the  other. 

The  work  of  the  novelist  is  very  The  novelist's 
directly  affected  by  his  philosophy  iww- 
of  life.  Yet  it  is  by  no  means  necessary  that 
he  should  be  conscious  of  the  view  of  the 
world  which  he  in  reality  maintains.  Here 
and  there,  indeed,  there  have  been  memorable 
examples  of  a  novelist  writing  to  illustrate, 
or  to  reduce  to  absurdity,  some  philosophi- 
cal theory  of  the  universe.  Voltaire's  "  Can- 


192  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

dide  "  was  written  to  ridicule  the  "  whatever 
is,  is  right "  theory,  made  famous  by  Leibnitz, 
Bolingbroke,  and  Pope.  In  Turgenieff's 
novels  there  is  a  tolerably  complete  exposi- 
tion of  political  and  philosophical  nihilism. 
The  philosophical  theory  of  pessimism  has 
never  been  more  brilliantly  exemplified  than 
in  the  novels  of  Flaubert,  and  the  middle 
and  later  stories  of  George  Eliot  drew  much 
of  their  inspiration  from  the  tendencies  of 
positivism  and  agnosticism.  These  writers 
are  all  what  Professor  Masson  would  classify 
as  "  thought  men  "  rather  than  "  fact  men." 
If  they  may  not  all  have  been  able  to  pass 
an  academic  examination  in  the  history  of 
philosophy,  each  of  them  had  a  more  or  less 
distinct  theory  of  the  scheme  of  human  life 
and  its  relations,  or  lack  of  relations,  to  the 
unseen  world  of  spirit. 

HIS  practical  ^  frequently  happens  that  novel- 
aoctrine.  j^  wno  jiave  troubled  themselves 

very  little  with  philosophical  theories  and 
generalizations  about  human  life  have  never- 
theless with  a  fine  unconsciousness  delivered 
themselves  clearly  as  to  the  meaning  of  life. 
Scott  teaches  us  to  be  brave,  Kingsley  to 
be  manly,  Dickens  to  be  kind.  Mr.  Henry 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  193 

James  instructs  us  that  life  is  an  art,  and 
that  to  play  the  game  properly  requires  in- 
finite finesse.  Such  writers  may  not  realize 
precisely  the  impression  which  they  have 
conveyed.  They  do  betray,  however,  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  the  view  of  life 
which  they  have  formed.  They  "  give  them- 
selves away,"  not  necessarily  in  any  one 
book,  nor  in  the  productions  of  any  one 
phase  of  their  creative  activity,  but  rather 
in  the  totality  of  their  work.  It  is  as  im- 
possible to  mistake  the  every-day  temper, 
the  moral  attitude  of  a  writer  who  has  ex- 
pressed himself  in  a  dozen  books,  as  it  would 
be  to  misunderstand  entirely  his  action  and 
his  motives  if  we  were  to  watch  him  through 
a  dozen  years  of  his  life. 

In  discussing  the  ethical  aim  of  •«  Art  and 
the  fiction-writer,  we  trench  upon  mora1*-" 
the  ground  of  the  old  debate  concerning  art 
and  morality.     Has  art  —  the  sphere  of  aes- 
thetic enjoyment  —  anything  at  all  to  do 
with  morals  —  the  sphere  of   conduct  ?     If 
these  two  fields  do  touch  each  other,  what 
is   the    nature   of    their    relations  ?     These 
questions   have   been  asked   and    answered 


194  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

more  insistently  and  more  bitterly  concerning 
fiction  than  any  other  of  the  arts, 
rue  artist  is  a       Let  us  begin  by  endeavoring  to 
human  being.  ^race  £ne  connection   between  the 

general  moral  attitude  of  the  novelist  and 
his  excellence  in  his  profession.  We  have 
already  quoted  the  definition  of  art :  "  A 
bit  of  nature  seen  through  a  temperament." 
It  is  true  that  this  definition  emphasizes  but 
a  single  function  of  the  artist's  complex  task, 
yet  that  function  is  an  essential  one.  The 
artist's  own  personality  is  as  it  were  the 
crucible  through  which  the  "  bit  of  nature  " 
—  the  material  for  art  —  must  pass  in  order 
to  be  changed  into  the  work  of  art.  What- 
ever affects  personality,  therefore,  instantly 
and  inevitably  affects  the  work  upon  which 
the  artist  is  engaged.  Now  sin  is  the  nega- 
tion of  personality.  It  turns  a  man  into  a 
brute.  It  minimizes  the  life  of  the  spirit, 
until  the  spiritual  faculties  disappear.  No- 
body denies  this.  The  artist  is  a  man  like 
the  rest  of  us.  He  is  a  moral  being,  and 
running  the  same  moral  risks  as  you  and  I, 
and  presumably  greater  risks,  owing  to  his 
finer  organization.  To  say  that  his  person- 
ality is  not  affected  by  the  morality  or  im- 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  193 

morality  of  his  life  is  to  place  the  artist  out- 
side the  pale  of  humanity.  It  is  to  deny 
him  the  very  attributes  that  make  him  a  man. 
To  declare  that  an  artist's  art  is  in  exact  ratio 
with  the  morality  of  his  private  life  would  be 
an  exaggeration,  yet  it  would  probably  be 
nearer  the  truth  than  to  say  that  his  life  and 
his  art  are  wholly  unrelated  quantities. 

We  should  note  that  the  honest  Labor  itseii  a 
labor  of  the  artist  is  in  itself  a  moralfaotor- 
moral  factor.  We  who  are  inclined  to  look 
merely  at  the  finished  art  product,  and  not 
into  the  workshop  where  the  product  is 
wrought,  are  constantly  tempted  to  under- 
rate the  moral  qualities  which  the  excellent 
workman  must  possess.  One  of  the  most 
suggestive  passages  in  Ruskin's  lecture  on 
"  Art  and  Morals  "  is  this  :  — 

"  The  day's  work  of  a  man  like  Mantegna  or  Paul 
Veronese  consists  of  an  unfaltering,  uninterrupted  suc- 
cession of  movements  of  the  hand  more  precise  than  those 
of  the  finest  fencer :  the  pencil  leaving  one  point  and 
arriving  at  another,  not  only  with  unerring  precision  at 
the  extremity  of  the  line,  but  with  an  unerring  and  yet 
varied  course  —  sometimes  over  spaces  a  foot  or  more 
in  extent  —  yet  a  course  so  determined  everywhere 
that  either  of  these  men  could,  and  Veronese  often 
ioes,  draw  a  finished  profile,  or  any  other  portion  of 


196  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

the  contour  of  a  face,  with  one  line,  not  afterwards 
changed.  Try,  first,  to  realize  to  yourselves  the  mus- 
cular precision  of  that  action,  and  the  intellectual  strain 
of  it ;  for  the  movement  of  a  fencer  is  perfect  in  prac- 
ticed monotony ;  but  the  movement  of  the  hand  of  a 
great  painter  is  at  every  instant  governed  by  direct  and 
new  intention.  Then  imagine  that  muscular  firmness 
and  subtlety  ;  and  that  instantaneously  selective  and 
ordinant  energy  of  the  brain,  sustained  all  day  long, 
not  only  without  fatigue,  but  with  a  visible  joy  in  the 
exertion,  like  that  which  an  eagle  seems  to  take  in  the 
wave  of  his  wings  ;  and  this  all  life  long,  and  through 
long  life,  not  only  without  failure  of  power,  but  with 
visible  increase  of  it,  until  the  actually  organic  changes 
of  old  age.  And  then  consider,  so  far  as  you  know 
anything  of  physiology,  what  sort  of  an  ethical  state  of 
body  and  mind  that  means  !  —  ethic  through  ages  past ! 
what  fineness  of  race  there  must  be  to  get  it,  what 
exquisite  balance  and  symmetry  of  the  vital  powers  ! 
And  then,  finally,  determine  for  yourselves  whether  a 
manhood  like  that  is  consistent  with  any  viciousness  of 
soul,  with  any  mean  anxiety,  any  gnawing  lust,  any 
wretchedness  of  spite  or  remorse,  any  consciousness  of 
rebellion  against  law  of  God  or  man,  or  any  actual, 
though  unconscious,  violation  of  even  the  least  law  to 
which  obedience  is  essential  for  the  glory  of  life,  and 
the  pleasing  of  its  Giver." 

What  Ruskin,  with  characteristic  eloquence, 
has  here  said  of  the  painter  is  scarcely  less 
true  of  the  novelist.  A  task  honestly  under- 
taken, patiently  carried  through,  is  in  itself 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  197 

a  bit  of  morality.  There  is  something  very 
fine  in  Emile  Zola's  steady  devotion,  for  twenty 
long  years,  to  a  single  artistic  plan :  the  com- 
pletion of  the  Rougon-Macquart  series  of 
novels.  Fifteen  hundred  words  a  morning, 
every  morning  in  the  week,  every  week  for 
twenty  years ;  no  wonder  M.  Zola  bears  the 
worn,  tired,  patient  face  of  the  worker.  Even 
though  the  Rougon-Macquart  series  proves, 
as  time  goes  by,  to  have  been  a  huge  blun- 
der, this  does  not  lessen  one's  respect  for  such 
an  example  of  fidelity  to  an  imagined  duty. 

Fidelity    to     Such     a    duty    is    of    -Laborareest 

course  a  very  different  thing  from  orare-" 
the  religious  consecration  which  made  Fra 
Angelico  breathe  a  prayer  whenever  he  lifted 
his  brush.  "  He  who  has  not  art,"  says 
Goethe,  in  a  tone  of  Olympian  condescension, 
"let  him  have  religion."  But  Fra  Angel- 
ico's  painting  was  no  worse  for  his  prelim- 
inary prayer.  The  religious  nature  has 
often  enough  found  a  supreme  expression 
through  the  arts.  In  a  very  true  sense  a 
man's  art  may  be  his  religion,  and  where  the 
religious  element  seems  left  out  of  an  artist's 
nature,  the  great  world's  verdict  commonly 
is  that  there  is  a  defect  in  that  man's  art. 


198  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE   FICTION 

Witness  the  plays  and  poems  of  the  Olympian 
Goethe  himself. 

A  complete  In  a11  this  T.am  simPlv  claiming 
man-  that  the  novelist,  like  the  poet  or 

the  painter,  should  be  as  far  as  possible  a  com- 
plete man.  A  defective  moral  organization, 
a  deficient  spirituality,  will  in  the  long  run 
count  as  surely  against  him  as  a  dull  wit  or 
a  clumsy  hand. 

But  precisely  how  does  an  artist's 

Immorality        .  ,.          «.        i  .  0    n 

and  tech-  immorality  afreet  his  work  .'  Greorge 
Eliot's  dictum  that  "  A  filthy  mind 
makes  filthy  art "  is  doubtless  sound,  but  it 
does  not  explain  the  process  in  question.  We 
must  look  for  the  results  of  immoral  conduct 
at  the  point  where  the  specific  immorality 
affects  the  artist's  handling  of  the  medium 
in  which  he  works.  One  may  declare  with  ab- 
solute confidence  that  Paderewski  is  neither 
a  drunkard  nor  an  opium-eater ;  if  he  were, 
it  would  be  physically  impossible  for  him  to 
retain  his  marvelously  perfect  control  over 
the  muscles  of  his  fingers.  He  might  perhaps 
be  a  miser  or  a  thief  without  affecting  his 
technique  as  a  pianist ;  but  no  miser  or  thief 
ever  had  the  freedom  and  serenity  of  mind 
which  are  essential  for  the  composition  of 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  199 

great  music.  Benvenuto  Cellini  was  a  noto- 
rious liar,  sensualist,  and  murderer ;  yet  as  a 
silversmith  and  designer  he  was  one  of  the 
most  admirable  workmen  of  the  Renaissance. 
Here  one  may  perhaps  say  that  the  effect  of 
Benvenuto's  immoralities  was  negative ;  if  he 
had  not  been  so  bad  a  man,  he  might  have 
cared  to  attempt  some  of  the  more  noble 
tasks  to  which  contemporary  artists  devoted 
themselves.  In  Browning's  poem,  theft  and 
treachery  clip  the  wings  of  Andrea  del  Sarto's 
imagination,  although  he  remains,  as  he  was 
before  his  sin,  the  "faultless"  painter.  Such 
discussions  turn  largely  upon  the  importance 
assigned  to  the  element  of  technique  in  assess- 
ing the  value  of  an  artist's  work.  The  more 
stress  laid  on  technique  the  less  important 
dees  the  question  of  morality  become,  unless 
immorality  results  in  actual  unsteadiness  of 
eye  or  hand. 

Or,  to  put  the  matter  a  little  dif-  The  generai 
f  erently,  we  may  say  that  the  moral  Uw- 
element  enters  into  every  art  in  proportion 
as  that  art  touches  human  life  and  charac- 
ter.    All  the  arts,  indeed,  group  themselves 
about  human  life,  but  they  do  not  all  stand 
towards  life  upon  terms  of  equal  intimacy.    A 


200  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

mediaeval  sculptor,  chiseling  grotesque  gar* 
goyles  for  the  eaves  of  a  cathedral,  is  work- 
ing in  a  realm  of  art  pretty  thoroughly  re- 
moved from  human  life  and  character.  So 
is  an  impressionist  landscape  painter  who  is 
striving  merely  to  reproduce,  as  cleverly  as 
may  be,  certain  color  tones ;  or  a  composer  of 
old-fashioned  Italian  opera,  basing  artificial 
melodies  upon  the  echoes  of  artificial  feeling. 
Such  artistic  activities  as  these  may  be  com- 
pared with  Cellini's  exquisite  cutting  of 
cameos;  if  the  workman's  hand  and  eye 
retain  their  normal  power,  his  goodness  or 
badness  of  heart  is  a  matter  of  secondary 
concern.  But  in  the  composition  of  great 
music,  or  great  poetry,  or  great  fiction,  mere 
manual  dexterity  occupies  a  subordinate 
place.  The  interpretation  of  life  and  char- 
acter becomes  now  the  artist's  all-important 
task,  and  a  characterless,  conscienceless  man 
has  no  apparatus  wherewith  to  decipher  char- 
acter and  conscience.  He  cannot  interpret 
what  he  cannot  comprehend.  The  old  argu- 
ment of  Quintilian  that  the  good  orator  must 
be  a  good  man  —  an  argument  that  has 
never  been  successfully  controverted  —  holds 
with  equal  force  in  the  realm  of  fiction.  A 


/ 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  201 

bad  man  cannot  become  a  great  novelist. 
He  might  write  excellent  short  stories ;  he 
might  even  compose  an  excellent  romance 
of  incident  and  adventure ;  but  he  could  not 
write  "  The  Newcomes,"  or  "  David  Cop- 
perfield,"  or  "  The  Antiquary."  The  novel 
would  be  beyond  him. 

In  all  this  we  must  bear  in  mind,  Allowances 
however,  that  we  are  dealing  with  tobema(le- 
relative  rather  than  with  absolute  values. 
The  possession  of  rare  literary  gifts  is  no 
warrant  that  the  possessor  is  superior  to 
the  weaknesses  and  vices  of  his  own  time, 
or  of  his  own  individual  nature.  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  nonsense  written  about  "  the  ar- 
tistic temperament  "  and  the  allowances  that 
must  be  made  for  it.  Yet  the  fact  remains 
that  the  professional  artist  has  usually  been 
a  somewhat  specialized  product  of  society. 
In  the  case  of  the  double  hydrangea,  as  of 
many  other  cultivated  plants,  beauty  has  been 
developed  at  the  expense  of  fertility;  this 
hydrangea  does  not  bear  fruit  like  the  other 
members  of  the  family  of  plants  to  which 
it  belongs ;  it  fulfills  its  purpose  by  perform- 
ing the  new  function  of  producing  beauti- 
ful flowers  alone.  By  a  similar  analogy,  we 


202  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

are  inclined  to  make  certain  allowances  for 
"  genius,"  that  is,  for  extraordinary  endow- 
ments of  special  capacity.  As  with  a  soldier 
drafted  for  service,  society  tacitly  excuses 
the  man  of  genius  from  some  of  the  civic 
duties  and  civic  virtues.  If  he  takes  advan- 
tage of  this  freedom,  however,  we  may  be 
sure  that  he  and  his  work  pay  due  penalty. 
We  may  not  be  able  to  appreciate  either  the 
force  of  his  temptations  or  the  degree  of  his 
repentance ;  we  do  not  know,  as  Burns  has 
pathetically  reminded  us,  "what's  resisted." 
It  is  enough  to  remember  that  in  a  world  of 
erring  men  and  women  the  "  artist  "  has  his 
share  of  human  weakness  and  struggle,  and 
that  in  the  presence  of  such  mysteries  as 
"  sin  "  and  "  personality  "  and  "  creative 
power  "  —  all  of  which  are  involved  in  this 
discussion  —  it  is  safer  to  avoid  dogmatic 
generalizations. 

The  moral  in-  When  we  pass  from  the  moral 
attitude  of  the  artist  to  the  moral 
influence  of  the  concrete  work  of 
whole  art,  we  are  upon  somewhat  surer 

ground.  It  is  easier  here  to  ascertain  the 
facts,  and  to  base  one's  judgment  upon  a 


THE  FICTION- WRITER  203 

wide  comparison  of  experiences.  We  should 
note,  for  instance,  that  the  influence  of  a 
book  should  be  estimated  by  its  effect  as  a 
whole,  rather  than  by  this  or  that  detail. 
To  select  a  familiar  instance,  it  has  fre- 
quently been  pointed  out  that  the  sexual 
morality  of  Goethe's  "  Wilhelm  Meister  "  is 
superficial,  pagan,  or  bad,  but  yet  that  the 
influence  of  the  book  as  a  whole  has  been 
helpful  to  countless  readers.  There  are  some 
indecencies  in  Shakespeare's  plays,  and  there 
is  occasional  grossness  in  Fielding's  novels; 
but  to  emphasize  such  blemishes,  and  dwell 
upon  them  as  if  indecency  and  grossness 
were  the  characteristic  qualities  of  Shake- 
speare and  Fielding,  is  wholly  to  miss  the 
splendid  radiance,  the  robust  humanity  of 
these  authors. 

Furthermore,    a    work    of    art. 

.      :  7  Andbyartis- 

wnether  painting,  or  statue,  or  tioaiiy  trained 
novel,  should  be  judged  by  artis- 
tically trained  minds.  Only  such  minds  can 
determine  the  character  of  the  work;  can  in- 
terpret the  conventional  language  which  the 
artist  is  forced  to  use.  Artistic  discipline 
alone,  as  sculptors  find  it  necessary  to  re- 
mind us,  can  teach  us  to  distinguish  the 


304  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

nude  from  the  naked,  the  undraped  from 
the  undressed.  The  vast  majority  of  culti- 
vated persons,  in  all  civilized  countries,  feel 
that  the  undraped  statue  of  the  Venus  of 
Melos,  by  its  own  inherent  qualities,  prohib- 
its indecent  suggestion.  If  here  and  there 
some  excellent  person  is  to  be  found  declar- 
ing that  this  statue  is  improper,  the  prudish- 
ness  is  not  so  much  a  sign  of  finer  moral 
feeling  as  of  defective  aesthetic  discipline. 
There  are  plenty  of  novels  that  frankly  ap- 
peal to  prurient  and  depraved  taste,  but 
before  condemning,  on  moral  grounds,  a 
novel  which  has  given  delight  to  generations 
of  mature  readers,  it  is  wiser  to  ascertain 
whether  we  have  perceived  the  author's  point 
of  view  and  properly  interpreted  his  inten- 
tion. There  is  rude  common  sense  in  Pro- 
fessor Raleigh's l  blunt  declaration  "  Books 
are  written  to  be  read  by  those  who  can 
understand  them ;  their  possible  effect  on 
those  who  cannot  is  a  matter  of  medical 
rather  than  of  literary  interest." 
"One man's  This  will  serve  to  remind  us  of 
the  homely  and  useful  proverb  that 
"  One  man's  meat  is  another  man's  poison." 

1  The  English  Novel,  p.  171. 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  205 

In  feeding  the  mind  as  well  as  in  feeding  the 
body,  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  same 
stimulus  produces  in  different  people  very  dif- 
ferent reactions.  There  is  such  a  thing  as 
dissolute  music,  but  a  musical  ear  and  some 
degree  of  musical  training  is  necessary  in 
order  to  perceive  it.  Of  two  persons  equally 
responsive  to  the  appeal  of  music,  and  lis- 
tening to  the  overture  to  "  Tannhauser," 
the  "  Venusberg  motif  "  will  run  riot  in  the 
mind  of  one,  and  the  "  Pilgrims'  Chorus  mo- 
tif "  solemnize  and  uplift  the  other.  Both 
hearers  are  listening  to  the  same  orchestra, 
but  they  are  hearing  and  dreaming  different 
things.  There  are  pages  of  fiction  which 
to  some  readers  seem  written  in  letters  of 
fire,  so  glowing  is  their  passion,  so  intense 
the  subtle  suggestions  of  the  text ;  to  other 
readers  —  or  to  these  same  readers  ten  years 
afterwards  —  those  magic  pages  seem  gray 
and  cold.  In  all  imaginative  art  the  specta- 
tor, the  listener,  the  reader,  plays  an  active 
as  well  as  a  passive  role ;  he  too  must  become 
for  the  moment  a  creator,  a  "  maker ;  "  he 
lives,  in  a  very  true  sense,  in  that  imaginary 
world ;  and  the  forms  and  potencies  thus 
created  by  the  reciprocal  activity  of  the 


206 

writer  and  the  reader  are  as  various  and  as 
little  capable  of  rigid  classification  as  are 
the  infinite  varieties  of  individual  human 
character. 

Most  discussions  of  the  morals 

Sexual  mo- 
rality not  the    of  fiction  drift  back  to  the  single 

sole  morality  •.  £  1  ..  ° 

tone  con-  question  or  sexual  morality.  JNo 
one  who  believes  that  "  morality  is 
the  core  of  life,"  and  recognizes  the  profound 
influence  of  sexual  instinct  in  the  actual 
ordering  of  human  institutions,  will  quarrel 
with  this  tendency  to  scrutinize  closely  all 
that  a  novel  may  portray  of  the  relations  of 
the  sexes.  Yet  such  a  scrutiny  is  apt  to 
overlook  the  fact  that  it  deals  with  but  a 
single  phase  of  morals.  There  are  many 
other  things  that  count,  both  in  the  business 
of  this  world  and  in  the  preparation  for  the 
Kinsfdom  of  Heaven.  There  are  thousands 

o 

of  good  people  who  are  shocked  —  as  per- 
haps they  ought  to  be  —  by  a  story  that 
describes  in  plain  terms  the  yielding  of  a 
young  man  to  sexual  temptation,  but  who 
are  not  shocked  in  the  least  by  a  story  that 
glorifies  brute  force,  sings  the  praise  of  war, 
and  teaches  that  for  the  individual  or  the 
nation  it  is  might  that  makes  right.  Yet 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  207 

which  of  these  stories  is  really  the  more  im- 
moral? Which  is  more  dangerous  to  the 
life  of  the  Republic  ? 

Another  aspect  of  fiction,  very  Speclflo  ffloral 
frequently  discussed,  but  never,  in  purpose- 
the  nature  of  the  case,  capable  of  absolute, 
dogmatic  statement,  is  suggested  by  the  ques- 
tion of  specific  moral  purpose.  When  a 
novelist  sits  down  to  write  a  story,  should 
he  have  a  specific  moral  intention  ?  Mrs. 
Stowe  is  supposed  to  have  had  such  a  pur- 
pose in  writing  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  —  to 
further  the  cause  of  abolition ;  Dickens  in 
writing  "Nicholas Nickleby," — to  drive  such 
schools  as  Dotheboys  Hall  out  of  existence  ; 
Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  in  writing  "  Robert  Els- 
mere,"  —  to  preach  Elsmerianism  ;  and  Miss 
Sewell in  writing  "Black  Beauty,"  — to  make 
people  kind  to  their  horses.  Granting  that 
these  causes  were  praiseworthy,  are  the  nov- 
els any  better  or  greater  because  they  were 
inspired  by  a  definite  moral  purpose  ?  Be- 
fore I  attempt  to  answer  this  question,  two 
admissions  should  be  made,  one  regarding 
the  nature  of  fine  art,  and  the  other  con- 
cerning the  facts  of  literary  history. 


208  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

We  must  admit  that  fine  art.  as 

Fine  art  has  1  -111 

no  practical  such,  has  no  practical  end  what- 
ever. The  pleasures  which  it  af- 
fords are  disinterested  pleasures ;  it  creates 
for  us  an  object  for  delighted  contemplation, 
nothing  more.  Its  divorce  from  the  world 
of  action  is  absolute.  And  prose  fiction  be- 
longs generically  —  in  its  highest  reaches, 
at  least  —  to  the  fine  arts.  The  instant, 
therefore,  that  a  work  of  fiction  proposes 
as  its  end  a  definite  action  which  is  to  be 
brought  about  through  its  influence  —  such 
as  the  acceptance  of  some  creed,  the  reform 
of  an  abuse,  the  marshaling  of  certain  social 
forces  against  other  social  forces  —  at  that 
instant  it  ceases  to  be  legitimate  artistic 
fiction.  It  may  be  eloquent  oratory,  or  clever 
pamphleteering,  or  effective  sermonizing,  but 
it  is  not  the  fine  art  of  fiction  any  longer. 

The  other  admission,  which  ap- 

Butllotlonls  * 

not  "un-  parently  contradicts  the  first,  is 
that  as  a  matter  of  fact  the  "  moral 
purpose  "  men  have  frequently  written  bet- 
ter novels  than  the  "  art  for  art's  sake  "  men. 
In  the  words  of  Bernard  Bosanquet,  "  His- 
tory shows  that  hazardous  to  art  as  the 
didactic  spirit  is,  the  mood  of  great  masters 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  309 

in  great  art  epochs  is  nearer  to  the  didactic 
spirit  than  to  the  conscious  quest  for  abstract 
beauty." x  The  explanation  is,  I  suppose, 
that  the  "  moral  purpose  "  men  have  on  the 
whole  been  greater  men,  more  adequately 
endowed  in  sympathy  and  imagination  ;  and 
since  prose  fiction  is  more  intimately  con- 
cerned with  human  life  and  character  than 
most  of  the  other  fine  arts,  this  fuller  en- 
dowment of  moral  sympathy  has  added  a  rich- 
ness and  vitality  to  the  work  of  the  "  moral 
purpose  "  men.  Art,  as  such,  is  indeed  "  un- 
moral ; "  an  Indian  basket,  a  Greek  vase,  a 
Morris  wall-paper  design,  a  Persian  rug,  are 
neither  moral  nor  immoral.  But  to  expect 
that  a  novelist  can  tell  us  the  story  of  Ar- 
thur Dimmesdale  or  Arthur  Pendennis  or 
Arthur  Donnithorne,  and  preserve  the  un- 
moral aloofness  of  the  designer  of  a  rug,  is 
to  fly  in  the  face  of  the  history  of  literature. 
The  novelist  is  a  man,  and  the  men  and  wo- 
men he  describes  are  not  alien  to  him.  "  Sunt 
lachrymse  rerum  et  mentem  mortalia  tangunt." 
Let  us  now  return  to  our  ques- 

i  ,  i-i  •         The  novel 

tion  about  the  novel  with  a  specific  with  a  pur- 

pose. 

moral  purpose.     Is  it  likely  to  be 

1  Bosanquet,  History  of  ^Esthetic,  p.  227« 


210  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

on  that  account  the  better  novel  ?  The 
chances  are  that  it  is  not.  If  it  has  subor- 
dinated artistic  considerations  to  the  exigen- 
cies of  some  ethical  doctrine,  it  commonly 
pays  the  penalty.  Tolstoi's  "  Resurrection  " 
is  a  sermon ;  its  point  will  disappear  with 
the  changes  in  Russian  society  ;  his  "  Anna 
Karenina "  remains  an  enduring  work  of 
art.  The  "  novel  with  a  purpose  "  has  often 
had  the  instantaneous  influence,  the  wide 
currency  of  a  pamphlet,  but  in  a  few  years 
it  shares  the  pamphlet's  fate.  The  "  novel 
of  the  season  "  is  not  the  novel  of  the  gen- 
erations. The  cleverness  of  its  adjustment 
to  the  popular  feeling  or  fad  of  the  hour 
makes  it  all  the  more  hopelessly  outlawed 
when  that  hour  is  past.  A  "  Pride  and  Pre- 
judice," written  for  sheer  love  of  the  writing, 
is  surer  of  finding  readers  after  another  hun- 
dred years  than  any  "  novel  with  a  purpose  " 
in  our  literature. 

But  is  moral  earnestness,  then, 
has  a  puce  in  to  be  forbidden  to  the  novelist? 
Have  indignation  against  injustice, 
sympathy  with  the  down-trodden,  high  ardor 
for  human  progress,  and  passion  for  the 
truth  at  whatever  cost  no  place  in  the  novel  ? 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  211 

Have  Fielding,  Scott,  Thackeray,  Dickens, 
George  Sand,  Turgenieff,  Daudet,  no  right- 
eous indignation,  no  strenuous  moral  passion  ? 
To  ask  such  a  question  is  to  answer  it.  But 
these  great  artists  in  fiction  used  their  indig- 
nation and  sympathy  and  zeal  for  human 
welfare  as  they  used  any  other  materials  of 
their  art.  The  artist  in  them  —  save  in  rare 
exceptions  —  controlled  and  directed  the  re- 
former. They  wrote  stories  of  human  life, 
not  merely  tracts  for  the  times.  There  is  not 
in  modern  English  poetry  a  profounder  moral 
insight,  a  nobler  spiritual  aspiration,  than  in 
Tennyson's  "  Palace  of  Art."  It  affects  the 
religious  emotions  more  than  a  dozen  ser- 
mons ;  yet  it  is  not  a  sermon.  It  is  a  poem. 
The  poet  and  not  the  preacher  has  held  cap- 
tive the  ear  and  the  soul ;  we  are  moved  to 
the  very  depths  of  our  nature,  but  we  are 
not  exhorted  to  go  forth  and  accomplish  a 
specific  task.  "  The  Palace  of  Art "  is  not  a 
purposeless  poem,  but  neither  is  it  a  "  poem 
with  a  purpose ; "  and  the  creative  power 
which  used  the  elements  of  intellectual  and 
moral  passion  in  building  "  The  Palace  of 
Art  "  is  the  same  power  that  wrought  "  The 
Scarlet  Letter  "  and  "  The  Bride  of  Lammer- 


212  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

moor"  and  "Henry  Esmond."  In  prose  fic« 
tion,  at  least,  if  not  always  in  the  other  arts, 
the  laws  of  beauty  sink  deep  into  the  struc- 
ture of  human  life,  and  a  novel  that  utilizes 
the  deepest  and  strongest  instincts  of  the 
heart  is  not  the  less  likely,  on  that  account, 
to  possess  consummate  and  enduring  beauty. 
If,  as  I  have  tried  to  indicate, 

Theproiea- 

sionoi  moral  the  presence  ot  a  specific  purpose 
is  usually  a  detriment  to  the  artistic 
quality  of  a  novel,  it  follows  that  the  au- 
thor's profession  of  a  definite  moral  purpose 
is  quite  gratuitous.  The  eighteenth  century 
men,  with  scarcely  an  exception,  made  the 
"  moral  purpose "  plea  in  their  prefaces.  It 
became  as  conventional  as  the  earlier  dedica- 
tion to  a  patron.  Defoe  did  it,  but  we  know 
that  that  imperturbable  liar  wrote  to  sell. 
Richardson  claimed  that  his  object  in  writing 
fiction  was  "  to  promote  the  cause  of  religion 
and  virtue."  Fielding  gravely  advertised 
himself  as  a  "  faithful  historian  of  human 
nature."  But  readers  of  "  Clarissa  Harlowe  " 
and  "  Tom  Jones  "  heed  very  little  what  tin 
prefaces  say  about  the  author's  motive  foi 
composition.  In  practical  life  we  distrust  a 
man  who  talks  much  about  the  good  influ- 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  213 

ence  which  he  is  trying  to  exert ;  and  the 
great  public  cares  absolutely  nothing  about 
what  the  author  believes  to  have  been  his 
purpose  in  writing.  It  cares  only  for  what 
he  has  expressed  in  his  book,  and  the  novel- 
ists who  write  magazine  articles  and  give 
lectures  in  order  to  explain  their  intentions 
would  do  well  to  profit  by  Goethe's  advice 
to  "  create  and  not  talk,"  —  "  Bilde,  Kiinst- 
ler,  rede  nicht." 

The  total  impression  made  by  any  The  noveii»t'» 
work  of  fiction  cannot  be  rightly  artl8tloalm- 
understood  without  a  sympathetic  percep- 
tion of  the  artistic  aim  of  the  writer.  Con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  he  has  accepted 
certain  facts,  and  rejected  or  suppressed  other 
facts,  in  order  to  give  unity  to  the  particular 
aspect  of  human  life  which  he  is  depicting. 
No  novelist  possesses  the  impartiality,  the  in- 
difference, the  infinite  tolerance,  of  nature. 
Nature  displays  to  us,  with  an  inveterate 
unconcern,  the  beautiful  and  the  ugly,  the 
precious  and  the  trivial,  the  chaste  and  the 
obscene.  If  you  lift  up  your  eyes  on  a  spring 
morning,  you  will  see  the  bluebird  flashing 
in  the  sun  ;  but  beneath  your  feet  there  may 
be  miry  ways  and  the  foul  winter's  refuse 


2H  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

which  nature,  careless  housekeeper,  has  not 
yet  troubled  herself  to  put  decently  out  of 
sight.  And  a  writer  must  choose  whether 
he  will  look  up  or  down ;  he  must  select  the 
particular  aspects  of  nature  and  human  nature 
which  are  demanded  by  his  work  in  hand. 
A  perfectly  faithful  "  transcript  of  life  "  he 
cannot  make,  not  even  if  he  is  a  Shake- 
speare ;  he  is  forced  to  select,  to  combine, 
to  create.  Stevenson  wrote,  in  a  characteris- 
tic passage :  — 

"  Our  art  is  occupied,  and  bound  to  be  occupied,  not 
so  much  in  making  stories  true  as  in  making  them 
typical  •,  not  so  much  in  capturing  the  lineaments  of 
each  fact,  as  in  marshalling  all  of  them  towards  a  com- 
mon end.  For  the  welter  of  impressions,  all  forcible 
but  all  discreet,  which  life  presents,  it  substitutes  a 
certain  artificial  series  of  impressions,  all  indeed  most 
feebly  represented,  but  all  aiming  at  the  same  effect, 
all  eloquent  of  the  same  idea,  all  chiming  together  like 
consonant  notes  in  music,  or  like  the  graduated  tints  in 
a  good  picture.  From  all  its  chapters,  from  all  its 
sentences,  the  well-written  novel  echoes  and  ree'choes 
its  own  creative  and  controlling  thought ;  to  this  must 
every  incident  and  character  contribute  ;  the  style  must 
have  been  pitched  in  unison  with  this  ;  and  if  there  is 
anywhere  a  word  that  looks  another  way,  the  book 
would  be  stronger,  clearer,  and  (I  had  almost  said) 
fuller  without  it."  The  Art  of  Fiction. 


THE  FICTION-WRITER  215 

Stevenson  loved  a  paradox,  and  undoubt- 
edly emphasized  the  principle  of  conscious 
artistic  selection  more  than  most  men  of  his 
craft.  It  is  enough,  perhaps,  for  us  to  recog- 
nize that  a  selection  of  some  sort  must  be 
made.  Alike  in  the  fairy  stories  of  Hans 
Christian  Andersen,  the  story  for  "  the  young 
person  "  by  Frank  Stockton,  and  the  grossly 
naturalistic  books  of  those  novelists  who  "  see 
the  hog  in  nature  and  henceforth  take  nature 
for  the  hog,"  there  is  a  deliberate  suppression 
of  whole  departments  of  thought  and  feeling, 
Lhere  is  the  building  up  of  a  new  world,  which 
may  be,  according  to  the  artist's  choice,  better 
or  worse  than  the  actual  world,  but  which  is 
in  any  case  different. 

This  selection  of  subject,  of  ma-  The  lnstlnot 
terial,  is  accompanied  by  a  kindred  *orl)eailty- 
instinct  for  the  choice  of  form.  Romantic 
and  naturalistic  epochs  furnish  constant  illus- 
tration of  the  preference  of  content  to  form, 
of  the  desire  to  secure,  at  any  price,  the 
emotions  of  surprise  and  of  recognition.  But 
no  epoch  in  the  history  of  fiction  is  without 
illustration  of  the  opposite  tendency ;  namely, 
to  subordinate  the  element  of  content  to  that 
of  form,  to  secure  "  effect "  through  symbols 


216  A  STUDY  Oi1  PROSE  FICTION 

rather  than  by  representation  of  objects. 
One  sort  of  "  effectivisin  "  is  as  vicious  as 
the  other.  The  fiction  that  has  yielded  plea- 
sure to  generations  of  readers  is  that  which 
reveals  a  deep  synthesis  of  form  and  content, 
a  fusion  of  those  two  elements  that  enter 
into  the  work  of  art.  Such  a  synthesis  must 
be  traced  back  to  the  writer's  spontaneous 
instinct.  It  is  a  process  antedating  the  con- 
scious choice  of  words,  the  conscious  selec- 
tion of  this  or  that  literary  formula.  After 
all,  a  man  is  born  ev(f>vTjs  —  with  a  beauti- 
ful, fair-proportioned  mind  —  or  he  is  not. 
Scott  and  Jane  Austen  and  Hawthorne  were 
€v<£v»79,  and  their  books  reveal  it.  The  de- 
sire to  make  beautiful  things  was  an  integral 
part  of  their  personalities ;  and  in  such  things, 
in  spite  of  every  difference  in  training  and 
method  and  outward  circumstance,  was  the 
true  life  of  their  spirits. 


CHAPTER  IX 

REALISM 

"Realism:  the  representation  of  what  is  real  in  fact  .  .  . 
according  to  actual  truth  or  appearance,  or  to  intrinsic  proba- 
bility, without  selection  or  preference  over  the  ugly  of  what  is 
beautiful  or  admirable ;  opposed  to  idealism  and  romanticism. .  . . 

"  The  observation  of  things  as  they  are,  - .  .  and  the  consequent 
faculty  of  reproducing  them  with  approximate  fidelity." 

Century  Dictionary. 

"  Courbet  was  the  first  or  among  the  first  to  feel  the  interest 
and  importance  of  the  actual  world  as  it  is  and  for  what  it  is, 
rather  than  for  what  it  suggests." 

W.  C.  BBOWNELL,  French  Art. 

WE  are  to  discuss  in  this  chapter 

The  need  ol 

a  somewhat  difficult  theme,  —  one  denning 

•  "realism." 

that  has  long  occupied  the  atten- 
tion of  the  reading  public,  and  about  which 
all  the  critics,  and  indeed  most  of  the  novel- 
ists, have  at  one  time  or  another  had  their 
say.  No  term  dealing  with  literary  methods 
has  been  more  current  than  "  realism,"  and 
there  is  none  that  needs  a  more  exact  an- 
alysis. In  connection  with  all  the  fine  arts 
the  word  "  realism  "  is  used,  but  we  do  not 


218  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

always  use  it  in  the  same  sense.  In  criti- 
cising works  of  art  the  term  is  employed 
with  at  least  four  distinct  shades  of  mean- 
ing. 

First,  we  speak  of  realism  as  op- 

As  opposed  to  L 

conventional-  posed  to  conventionalism.  In  de- 
corative work,  for  instance,  there  is 
usually  no  attempt  to  represent  any  partic- 
ular flower  or  tree,  but  simply  to  repeat  a 
conventional  pattern.  But  if  in  the  carvings 
around  a  cathedral  door  we  find  among  the 
conventional  trefoils  and  dragons  an  effort  to 
represent  an  actual  plant  or  animal  of  that 
neighborhood,  we  speak  of  the  "  realism  "  of 
the  mediaeval  sculptor.  In  like  manner,  when 
the  early  Greek  sculptors  abandoned  the 
stiff,  purely  conventional  drapery  that  fell 
in  wooden  folds  from  the  shoulders  of  men 
and  women  alike,  and  endeavored  to  give  the 
effect  of  the  actual  garments  then  worn  by 
the  two  sexes,  it  was,  to  that  extent,  a  real- 
istic movement,  though  of  course  very  far 
removed  from  the  painstaking  labor  of  the 
modern  sculptor  to  represent  real  lace  and 
real  buttonholes. 

AS  oppo»ed  to  Secondly,  we  speak  of  realism  in 
idealism.  distinction  from  idealism,  meaning 


REALISM  219 

by  idealism  the  "  effort  to  realize  the  high- 
est type  of  any  natural  object  by  eliminating 
all  its  imperfect  elements,  —  representing  na- 
ture as  she  might  be."  Rosa  Bonheur  buys 
a  horse,  stables  it  next  her  studio,  and  paints 
it  to  the  life.  On  the  other  hand,  Regnault's 
"  Automedon  taming  the  Horses  of  Achil- 
les "  is  said  to  have  called  forth  this  com- 
ment from  two  visitors :  "  You  never  saw 
horses  like  those  !  "  "  No,"  said  the  other, 
"  but  I  have  been  looking  for  them  for  forty 
years !  "  Rosa  Bonheur's  horse  is  more  real- 
istically painted ;  there  is  less  idealism  than 
in  the  horses  of  Regnault.  Or,  to  take  per- 
haps a  better  example,  the  Sistine  Madonna 
is  thought  by  many  critics  to  be  an  idealiza- 
tion of  a  certain  portrait  by  Raphael  in  the 
Pitti  Palace  at  Florence.  The  slyness,  the 
sensuality,  has  been  taken  out  of  the  face, 
the  features  have  been  made  more  regular, 
the  expression  wonderfully  purified,  ennobled ; 
the  same  woman  is  back  of  both  pictures,  but 
we  speak  of  the  "  realism  "  of  the  Florence 
portrait,  while  the  Sistine  Madonna  is  so 
little  of  a  portrait,  is  so  idealized,  that  it 
becomes  for  most  people  a  type  of  the  Di- 
vine Motherhood. 


220  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

In  the  third  place,  we  talk  of 

&s  opposed  to 

theimagina-  the  realistic  as  opposed  to  the 
imaginative.  Michelangelo  took 
an  extraordinary  interest  in  anatomy,  and 
was  never  weary  of  displaying  his  knowledge 
of  the  human  figure.  He  has  exhibited  this 
knowledge,  with  equal  mastery,  let  us  say  in 
his  "  Soldiers  Bathing,"  and  in  the  "Adam" 
of  the  Sistine  Chapel,  who  stretches  forth  his 
hand  to  receive  a  living  soul  from  the  Crea- 
tor. Both  are  admirable  studies  from  the 
undraped  figure,  but  the  Sistine  picture  is 
infinitely  more  than  that ;  it  is  a  superb  con- 
ception, a  triumph  of  the  imagination ;  and 
we  mark  this  difference  when  we  speak  of 
the  strong,  healthy,  admirable  realism  of  the 
bathing  soldiers.  A  cognate,  although  some- 
what different,  illustration  may  be  drawn  from 
the  sphere  of  poetry.  The  "  History  of  Dr. 
Faustus,"  which  gave  Marlowe  the  basis  for 
his  play,  contains  this  description  of  the  ap- 
parition of  Helen  of  Troy :  — 

"  This  lady  appeared  before  them  in  a  most  rich 
gown  of  purple  velvet,  costly  embroidered ;  her  hair 
hanging  down  loose,  as  fair  as  the  beaten  gold,  and 
of  such  length  that  it  reached  down  to  her  hams, 
having  most  amorous  coal-black  eyes,  a  sweet  and 


REALISM  221 

pleasant  round  face,  with  lips  as  red  as  any  cherry ; 
her  cheeks  of  a  rose-colour,  her  mouth  small,  her  neck 
white  like  a  swan ;  tall  and  slender  of  personage ;  in 
sum,  there  was  no  imperfect  place  in  her ;  she  looked 
round  about  her  with  a  roling  hawke's  eye,  a  smiling 
and  wanton  countenance." 

We  are  told  the  texture  and  color  of  her 
robe,  the  length  of  her  hair,  the  shape  of  her 
face,  the  peculiarities  of  her  features ;  it  is  an 
effort  at  realistic  description ;  but  note  how 
the  poet,  with  one  beat  of  his  pinions,  rises 
into  the  realm  of  the  imagination,  and  de- 
scribes by  refraining  from  description  :  — 

"  Was  this  the  face  that  launched  a  thousand  ships, 
And  burnt  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium  ?  " 

Lastly,  it  is  customary,  in  speak- 

„       ,         „  As  opposed  to 

ing  of  the  fine  arts,  to  use  the  sentimentai- 
term  "  realism  "  in  contradistinction 
to  sentimentalism.  We  have  this  contrast 
in  mind  when  we  put  French  painters  in  the 
days  of  Louis  XV.,  men  like  Watteau,  Fra- 
gonard,  Van  Loo,  with  their  charming  arti- 
ficiality, their  delicate  and  impossible  com- 
binations of  Cupids  and  fountains  and  lawn- 
parties,  over  against  the  Dutchmen  who  were 
painting,  as  honestly  as  they  knew  how, 
what  Ruskin  superciliously  calls  "  fat  cattle 
and  ditchwater."  We  are  conscious  of  the 


222  A   STUDY   OF  PROSE  FICTION 

same  contrast  in  poetry  when  we  turn  from 
"Childe  Harold"  to  "Don  Juan,"  from 
Keats's  "  Endymion  "  to  Crabbe's  "  Tales  of 
the  Hall,"  from  Rossetti's  "Sister  Helen" 
to  Browning's  "  Era  Lippo  Lippi,"  or  from 
Tennyson's  "  Gardener's  Daughter  "  to  his 
"  Rizpah." 


popular  con-  thus  be  seen  *na*  when 


we  attribute  realism  to  a  work  of 
notion.          ar^  we  ky  no  means  always  use  the 

word  with  the  same  signification.  It  would  be 
hazardous  to  assert  that  the  four  uses  I  have 
illustrated  —  namely,  as  in  opposition  to  con- 
ventionalism, to  idealism,  to  the  imaginative, 
and  to  sentimentalism  —  exhaust  the  possible 
meanings  of  the  term.  Realism  in  fiction 
may  mean  realism  in  any  of  the  senses  appli- 
cable to  the  fine  arts.  And  furthermore,  as 
the  result  of  the  discussions  of  the  art  of 
fiction  which  have  been  waged  so  continu- 
ously and  on  every  hand  for  the  past  twenty 
years,  there  have  been  developed  in  the  pub- 
lic mind  three  distinct  conceptions  of  what 
constitutes  realism  in  fiction.  Let  us  note 
them  carefully. 

copying  Perhaps  the  most  wide-spread  of 

actual  lacta.     these  popular  conceptions  is  this: 


REALISM  223 

that  realism  in  fiction  consists  in  copying 
actual  facts.  In  the  figure  of  speech  most 
often  employed,  the  realist  is  a  photographer. 
He  sets  up  his  camera  in  front  of  you,  with- 
out saying  "  By  your  leave,"  or  "  Now,  a 
pleasant  expression,  please,"  and  he  takes 
you.  His  grocer  has  a  peculiar  way  of  tying 
up  a  package,  his  mother-in-law  a  trick  of 
lifting  her.  left  eyebrow ;  the  indefatigable 
realist  secures  a  negative  of  each.  He  can 
do  likewise  with  a  railroad  train,  a  line  of 
bricklayers,  the  side  elevation  of  a  tenement 
house,  or  a  landscape.  Once  let  him  master 
the  mechanical  process,  and  the  world  be- 
comes an  infinity  of  potential  plates.  Those 
to  whom  this  metaphor  of  photography  seems 
too  mechanical  have  another  word  to  repre- 
sent the  copying  of  actual  facts,  the  word 
"  transcribe."  Realism  means  a  "  transcript 
of  life  "  as  it  passes  before  you.  "  You  can- 
not take  too  many  notes,"  says  Henry  James ; 
"  the  human  documents  "  are  the  all-impor- 
tant thing,  cry  the  French  writers. 
The  second  popular  conception 

i.   ..,«•!•  •      Deliberate 

ot  the  realistic  method  is  that  it  choice  of  the 

,  1  ,  .,        commonplace. 

does  not  photograph  or  transcribe 

all  the  facts,  but  that  it  makes  a  deliberate 


224  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

choice  of  the  commonplace.  The  "Boston 
Herald  "  remarked,  during  one  of  the  high 
tides  of  American  realism  :  "  In  the  bright 

O 

lexicon  of  the  new  school  of  fiction  the  un- 
interesting means  interesting,  and  persons 
having  any  particular  strength  of  character 
are  useful  only  as  foils  for  the  flaccid  and 
colorless."  As  a  less  pungent  but  perfectly 
fair  statement  of  the  point  at  issue,  I  will 
quote  from  a  personal  letter  of  a  professional 
musician,  a  pupil  of  Liszt,  and  himself  a  thor- 
ough romanticist. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  all  art  should  idealize,  and 
should  select  for  embodiment  characters  and  incidents 
which  are  raised  by  some  unusual,  inherent  quality  above 
the  level  of  common  every-day  life,  which  we  all  expe- 
rience ad  nauseam.  They  need  not  be  less  realistic. 
The  diamond  is  as  real  a  natural  product  as  a  lump 
of  coal ;  it  is  simply  less  common,  more  beautiful  and 
valuable.  I  am  aware  that  it  is  considered  to-day  the 
highest  praise  with  a  certain  class  of  readers  and  crit- 
ics, to  pronounce  a  book  strictly  "  true  to  life,"  by 
which  is  meant  the  every-day  life  of  all.  It  seems  to 
me  it  is  better  to  take  these  experiences  first-hand,  in  the 
original,  as  they  come  to  us  all  in  plenty,  and  to  seek 
in  literature  for  those  equally  real  but  rarer  experi- 
ences, only  found  in  the  exceptional  moments  and  in 
meeting  exceptional  characters ;  experiences  with  the 
higher,  intenser  phases  of  life,  not  so  readily  obtain- 


REALISM  225 

able  elsewhere.  I  am  well  aware  that  these  views  are 
only  those  of  the  school  to  which  I,  as  artist,  naturally 
belong,  and  realize  that  you  have  the  fullest  right  to 
adhere  to  the  other." 

I  shall  refer  again  to  this  extract  from  the 
musician's  letter,  and  will  ask  the  reader  now 
simply  to  note  the  phrase  "  the  every-day  life 
of  all,"  to  the  representation  of  which,  he 
says,  the  "  falsely  called  realistic  school  "  de- 
vote themselves.  In  "the  every-day  life  of 
all "  there  are  a  hundred  chances  to  one  that 
the  horse  does  not  run  away,  that  the  house 
does  not  burn  down,  that  the  long-lost  will 
does  not  tumble  out  of  the  secret  drawer. 
Therefore,  as  Mr.  Howells  has  triumphantly 
argued,  fiction  should  not  concern  itself  with 
the  hundredth  chance,  but  with  the  ninety- 
nine  :  it  should  make  deliberate  choice  of 
the  commonplace. 

The  third  of  the  current  concep-  The  <.,„!. 
tions  is  not  originally  based  upon  Pleasant-" 
the  fiction  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race,  but  has 
been  imported  from  the  continent,  together 
with  the  books  that  have  given  rise  to  it. 
According  to  this  conception,  realism  in  fic- 
tion is  synonymous  with  the  "  unpleasant." 
It  deals  with  objects  and  relations  which  by 


226  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

the  common  consent  of  well  bred  people  are 
tabooed  in  conversation.  Its  material  may 
be  that  which  is  physically  repellent,  or  that 
which  offends  the  moral  sense,  or  very  likely 
a  combination  of  them  both ;  and  the  pre- 
vailing British  —  and  to  some  extent  the 
American  —  opinion  about  this  phase  of 
realistic  fiction  is  vigorously  and  exhaus- 
tively, though  not  very  poetically,  expressed 
in  the  line  of  Tennyson's  second  "  Locksley 
Hall "  about  "  maiden  fancies  wallowing  in 
the  troughs  of  Zolaism."  It  is  to  be  noted 
that  this  conception  of  realism,  like  the  pre- 
ceding one,  is  based  upon  the  writer's  choice 
of  material  rather  than  upon  his  method. 
We  shall  see  later  that  it  is  quite  possible  for 
a  novelist  like  Stevenson  to  select  romantic 
material,  but  to  depict  it  with  realistic  tech- 
nique. 

I  should  by  no  means  wish  to 
misconcep-  assert  that  these  three  wide-spread 
conceptions  of  the  realistic  novel 
are  necessarily  misconceptions.  Notable  fic- 
tion has  been  produced  by  the  method  of 
copying  actual  facts.  The  human  spectacle 
is  one  of  extraordinary  interest  and  variety, 


KEALISM  227 

and  the  hand  can  be  taught  a  high  degree  of 
skill  in  copying,  or  transcribing,  those  facts 
that  are  apparent  to  the  senses.  It  can  never 
be  taught  an  absolute  skill ;  a  man  is  not  a 
machine  —  a  camera  raised  to  the  nth  power 
—  though  he  may  try  to  make  himself  think 
that  he  is.  However  faithfully  he  may  at- 
tempt to  copy  the  facts  before  him,  some  of 
them  will  escape  him.  All  unconsciously  he 
selects,  modifies,  adjusts;  the  camera  has  a 
greater  fidelity,  a  more  perfect  impartiality, 
than  the  man  ;  and  yet  somehow  the  man's 
work  is  better  than  the  camera's.  In  other 
words,  the  subjective  element,  which  enters 
necessarily  into  every  product  of  man's  ar- 
tistic effort,  however  persistently  the  artist 
tries  to  exclude  it,  is  precisely  the  element 
that  gives  the  highest  value  to  art,  that  gives 
it  enduring  significance  as  the  record  of  the 
human  spirit.  And  nevertheless,  as  to  excel 
in  some  forms  of  athletics  a  man  must  turn 
himself  into  an  animal  for  the  time  being 
and  renounce  his  higher  faculties,  so  no- 
thing is  more  common  than  to  see  the  ar- 
tist in  fiction  pride  himself  mainly  upon  his 
lower  gift,  his  manual  dexterity.  In  pur- 
suance of  this  theory  of  his  own  powers,  or 


228  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

a  theory  as  to  the  limited  province  of  his  art, 
he  may  nevertheless  do  remarkable  and  val- 
uable work  on  the  level  to  which  he  restricts 
himself.  The  Dutch  painters  may  have  re- 
nounced the  things  of  the  spirit,  —  which 
are  no  doubt  difficult  to  paint,  —  but  they 
rendered  their  "  fat  cattle  and  ditchwater " 
with  an  accuracy  and  a  sympathy  that  are 
worthy  of  high  praise  ;  and  it  is  in  similar 
fashion  that  notable  fiction  has  been  pro- 
duced by  the  method  of  copying  actual  facts, 
or  by  the  allied  method  of  selecting  for  re- 
presentation certain  facts  which  are  uncom- 
promisingly commonplace.  Both  these  meth- 
ods are  properly  enough  called  realistic;  and 
it  is  also  impossible  to  refuse  that  term  to 
novels  dealing  with  what  we  have  called 
"  unpleasant "  phases  of  life.  There  are  sen- 
sitive, highly  cultivated  people  who  cannot 
read  books  like  "  Anna  Karenina  "  or  "  Ma- 
dame Bovary,"  but  it  is  idle  to  deny  that 
these  great  books  are  realistic  in  method  and 
that  they  are  masterpieces  of  art. 

The  three  conceptions  of  realism. 

Is  an  Inolu-        ,  .  .  , 

•ive  detini-     then,  are  not  misconceptions  ;  but 

tionpo»sil>l«?      ,  .   ,  .  .„    , 

they  are  partial  conceptions  it  they 
are  exclusive  of  one  another.     Ic  it  possible 


REALISM  229 

to  find  a  definition  which  shall  include  them 
all?  By  taking  a  hint  from  Hawthorne's 
well  known  distinction  between  the  romance 
and  the  novel,  I  think  we  may  get  this  nega- 
tive definition  of  realism  in  fiction  :  It  is 
that  fiction  which  lacks  the  romantic  atmos- 
phere. But  it  may  be  objected  that  "  roman- 
tic atmosphere  "  is  a  somewhat  vague  term, 
and  that  it  implies  a  preliminary  discussion 
of  romanticism.  Here,  then,  is  a  more  posi- 
tive, working  definition  :  Realistic  fiction  is 
that  which  does  not  shrink  from  the  com- 
monplace (although  art  dreads  the  common- 
place) or  from  the  unpleasant  (although  the 
aim  of  art  is  to  give  pleasure)  in  its  effort  to 
depict  things  as  they  are,  life  as  it  is. 

Let  me  illustrate.  I  want,  let  us  The  Uve 
say,  a  live  eagle  for  a  pet.  Now  a  eagle> 
live  eagle  is  not  an  altogether  pleasant  thing 
to  have  in  the  house.  I  know  beforehand 
that  an  eagle  does  not  dine  on  bonbons; 
there  will  be  dried  blood  upon  its  beak,  and 
filth  upon  its  feathers,  and  the  odor  of  car- 
rion about  its  claws.  A  stuffed  eagle  would 
be  for  many  reasons  far  nicer :  an  eagle  care- 
fully skinned,  deodorized,  and  mounted,  with 
insect  powder  in  his  plumage  and  varnish  on 


230  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

his  legs,  and  a  pair  of  glass  eyes.  A  stuffed 
eagle  would  be  more  artistic,  would  be  more 
of  an  ornament  to  the  library,  would  give 
more  pleasure  to  one's  friends,  would  be 
much  safer  for  the  children.  Nevertheless, 
I  am  perverse  enough  to  say,  "  I  don't  want 
a  stuffed  eagle  ;  I  want  a  live  one."  And  I 
have  a  right  to  choose  the  kind  of  eagle  I 
prefer. 

Is  it  not  iust  like  that  in  the 

Choosing  *  n     •        o     T     i    • 

the  fiction       matter  01  fiction  ?   I  claim  for  my- 

one  wants.  ,/,  »  ,         .,  .    . 

sell,  or  tor  any  one  else,  the  privi- 
lege of  saying  to  a  novel-writer :  "  I  am  eager 
to  know  more  about  life.  Literature,  you  say, 
is  the  interpretation  of  life.  Therefore,  by 
means  of  your  art,  interpret  life  to  me.  Only 
I  am  tired  to-day  —  perhaps  I  may  have  been 
for  many  days  —  of  reading  about  life  as  it 
used  to  be  in  the  sixteenth  century,  or  life  as 
it  is  going  to  be  in  the  twenty-first,  or  life  as 
some  one  thinks  it  ought  to  be  to-day ;  tell 
me,  you  who  have  the  eye  and  the  tongue, 
about  life  as  it  is,  about  things  as  they  are  !  " 
One  may  demand  this  from  a 

The  field  .    J       .  . 

of  fiction        novel-writer  without  implying  for  a 

Illimitable.  ,..„.. 

moment  that  realistic  fiction  is  any 
better  or  greater  than  romantic  fiction,  or 


REALISM  231 

historical  fiction,  or  Utopian  fiction.  The 
field  of  fiction  is  illimitable.  It  is  a  great  pity 
that  some  American  champions  of  realism  saw 
fit  to  begin  by  sneering  at  their  betters,  or  by 
running  round  and  round  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
barking  at  him.  Hawthorne  had  as  good  a 
right  to  construct  a  romance,  laying  the  scene 
in  Rome,  as  had  Mr.  James  to  set  a  realistic 
novel  —  or  at  least  a  chapter  of  a  realistic 
novel  —  in  Albany,  or  to  derive  his  heroine 
from  Schenectady ;  and  if  Mr.  James,  who 
knows  the  theory  of  fiction  so  much  better 
than  Hawthorne,  fails  to  make  "  The  Portrait 
of  a  Lady  "  as  great  a  book  as  "  The  Marble 
Faun,"  it  simply  proves,  not  that  romance  is 
superior  to  realism,  or  that  life  in  Albany  is 
any  less  suited  to  the  novelist's  art  than  life 
in  Rome,  but  simply  that  Nathaniel  Haw- 
thorne is  a  better  story-writer  than  Henry 
James. 

In  spite  of  the  wide-spread  inter- 

.     r  .  .  English 

est  m  romantic  fiction  just  at  pre-  realism: 
sent,  there  is  every  reason  for  the 
champion  of  realism  to  keep  his  temper,  and 
to  read  the  books  he  likes  best.    No  national 
fiction  gives  more  triumphant  evidence  than 
the  English  of  the  success  of  the  method  that 


232  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

does  not  shrink  from  the  commonplace,  the 
unpleasant,  in  its  effort  to  render  life  as  it  is, 
things  as  they  are.  I  turn  at  random  the 
pages  of  the  earliest  master  of  English  fic- 
tion, and  come  upon  a  passage  like  this :  — 

"  When  I  came  to  open  the  chests,  I  found  several 
things  of  great  use  to  me  ;  for  example,  I  found  in 
one  a  fine  case  of  bottles,  of  an  extraordinary  kind, 
and  filled  with  cordial  waters,  fine  and  very  good ;  the 
bottles  held  about  three  pints  each,  and  were  tipped 
with  silver.  ...  I  found  some  very  good  shirts, 
which  were  very  welcome  to  me ;  and  about  a  dozen 
and  a  half  of  white  linen  handkerchiefs  and  colored 
neckcloths ;  the  former  were  also  very  welcome,  being 
exceeding  refreshing  to  wipe  my  face  in  a  hot  day. 
Besides  this,  when  I  came  to  the  till  in  the  chest,  I  found 
there  three  great  bags  of  pieces-of-eight,  which  held 
about  1100  pieces  in  all ;  and  in  one  of  them,  wrapped 
up  in  a  paper,  six  doubloons  of  gold  and  some  small 
bars  or  wedges  of  gold ;  I  suppose  they  might  all  weigh 
near  a  pound." 

The  studied  commonplaceness,  the  minute 
enumeration,  the  curious  particularity,  are  of 
the  very  essence  of  realism ;  they  make  up 
what  we  call  the  verisimilitude  of  "  Robinson 
Crusoe,"  its  life-likeness.  These  qualities  wiU; 
perhaps,  be  even  more  apparent  on  reading 
Defoe's  less  known  books,  such  as  "  Rox- 
ana."  Here  the  tone  is  grave,  frank ;  the 


REALISM  233 

•details  circumstantial ;  there  is  no  fancy,  no 
humor,  no  imagination,  save  the  imagina- 
tion that  is  directed  upon  things  as  they 
are,  physically  and  morally ;  never  was  there 
a  book  with  less  of  a  romantic  atmosphere; 
it  is  an  absolutely  realistic  exposition  of  the 
sober,  terribly  earnest,  Protestant  theme  that 
the  wages  of  sin  is  death. 

The  attitude  is  the  same,  though 
the  technique  differs,  in  Richard- 
son. At  the  age  of  fifty-one  he  wrote  his  first 
novel,  "  Pamela,"  whose  heroine  was  a  ser- 
vant girl.  He  thought,  he  tells  us,  that  if  he 
wrote  a  story  in  an  easy  and  natural  manner 
—  instead  of  a  little  book  of  familiar  letters 
on  the  useful  concerns  of  common  life  which 
his  friends,  the  booksellers,  had  wished  —  he 
might  possibly  turn  young  people  into  a 
course  of  reading  "different  from  the  pomp 
and  parade  of  romance  writing,  and  dismiss- 
ing the  improbable  and  the  marvelous,  with 
which  novels  generally  abound,  might  tend  to 
promote  the  cause  of  religion  and  virtue." 

"  To  promote  the  cause  of  reli- 

f     .  Fielding. 

gion  and  virtue     was  somewhat  os- 
tentatiously announced  by  all  the  great  eight- 
eenth century  novelists  to  be  the  object  of 


234  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

their  labors.  Their  theory  was  that  it  could 
be  accomplished  by  exhibiting  men  as  they 
are,  showing  vice  and  virtue  in  their  true  light. 
"  It  is  our  business,"  says  Fielding,  "  to  dis- 
charge the  part  of  a  faithful  historian,  and 
to  describe  human  nature  as  it  is,  not  as  we 
would  wish  it  to  be."  "  Alas,"  replies  a  critic 
like  Sidney  Lanier,  "  if  you  confront  a  man 
day  by  day  with  nothing  but  a  picture  of  his 
own  un worthiness,  the  final  effect  is  not  to 
stimulate,  but  to  paralyze  his  moral  energy. 
...  If  I  had  my  way  with  those  classic  books, 
I  would  blot  them  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 
...  I  can  read  none  of  them  without  feeling 
as  if  my  soul  had  been  in  the  rain,  draggled, 
muddy,  miserable."  This  is  rather  tropical 
language  for  a  professed  critic.  Without 
claiming  for  a  moment  that  eighteenth  cen- 
tury fiction  shows  perfect  art  or  a  perfect 
morality,  we  may  still  assert  that  it  is  just  as 
legitimate  for  a  novelist  to  base  his  work  upon 
human  nature  as  it  is,  as  upon  human  nature 
as  he  would  wish  it  to  be.  If,  following  the 
first  of  these  methods,  his  books  paralyze  our 
energy,  then  so  much  the  worse  for  the  nov- 
elist's conception  of  human  nature.  As  for 
Fielding,  who  has  to  bear  the  brunt  of  the- 


REALISM  235 

attack,  he  is  quite  capable  of  fighting  his 
own  battles.  His  readers  will  gladly  sac- 
rifice "the  sublimities"  if  they  may  be  al- 
lowed to  observe  Partridge  in  the  theatre,  or 
"  the  postilion  (a  lad  who  hath  been  since 
transported  for  robbing  a  hen-roost)  "  playing 
the  part  of  the  Good  Samaritan,  or  Sergeant 
Atkinson  when  he  supposes  himself  to  be 
dying  and  asks  leave  to  kiss  the  hand  of  Mrs. 
Booth,  or  Amelia  in  that  chapter  "  In  which 
Amelia  appears  in  a  Light  more  Amiable 
than  Gay." 

Such  writing  endures.     It  forms 

,  ,  ,.  '     .     .  ,       .          The  great 

the  public  taste,  it  is  sure  to  be  im-  succession  of 

i        -n  •  p    reallst8- 

itated.  Even  when  the  influence  or 
Rousseau  and  the  French  Revolution  brought 
new  types  into  English  fiction,  —  embodying 
the  social  aspirations  of  the  Revolution,  the 
feeling  for  nature  in  her  mildest  and  grandest 
forms,  the  gloomy,  Byronic  individual,  the  ro- 
mance of  the  picturesque  and  terrible,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  splendid  series  of  historical 
novels  in  which  the  genius  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott  fascinated  England  and  the  continent, 
—  England  was  rarely  without  some  writer 
who  did  not  shrink  from  the  commonplace  in 
the  effort  to  represent  life  as  it  is.  The  great 


236  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

Sir  Walter,  whose  own  Scotch  novels  exhibit 
such  admirable  realism,  noted  in  his  diary, 
March  14,  1826 :  — 

"  Read  again,  and  for  the  third  time  at  least,  Miss 
Austen's  very  finely  written  novel  of  Pride  and  Preju- 
dice. That  young  lady  had  a  talent  for  describing  the 
involvements  and  feelings  and  characters  of  ordinary 
life,  which  is  to  me  the  most  wonderful  I  ever  met  with. 
The  Big  Bow-Wow  strain  I  can  do  myself  like  any  now 
going  ;  but  the  exquisite  touch,  which  renders  ordinary 
commonplace  things  and  characters  interesting,  from 
the  truth  of  the  description  and  the  sentiment,  is  denied 
to  me.  What  a  pity  such  a  gifted  creature  died  so 
early !  " 

Jane  Austen  wrote  while  the  English  ro- 
mantic movement  was  at  its  height ;  then  in 
the  succession  of  the  great  novelists  came 
Thackeray,  who  burlesqued  the  romantic 
movement  and  satirized  it ;  Dickens,  with 
his  vivid  social  sense,  his  glorification  of  lowly 
life ;  George  Eliot,  who  completed  her  theory 
of  fiction  before  she  wrote  a  line,  and  who 
was  realist  to  the  core.  Students  of  the  realis- 
tic method  as  it  existed  in  England  in  the  lat- 
ter half  of  the  nineteenth  century  will  never 
find  more  perfect  harmony  between  criti- 
cal theory  and  creative  art  than  is  found  in 
"Adam  Bede"  and  "  The  Mill  on  the  Floss." 


REALISM  237 

The  key  word  of  George  Eliot's 
art  is  sympathy;  the  key  word  of  ism: Madam* 
the  French  realists  is  detachment. 
What  is  called  realism  or  "  naturalism "  in 
French  fiction  appeared  shortly  after  1850. 
Some  look  upon  Balzac  as  its  founder,  and 
indeed  as  Balzac  was  by  turns  a  little  — 
nay,  a  great  deal  —  of  everything,  he  was 
now  and  again  a  capital  realist.  But  French 
realism  was  beyond  anything  else  a  reaction 
against  the  French  romanticism  of  the  thir- 
ties, and  the  book  that  voiced  this  reaction, 
the  book  that  has  been  called  the  "  Don 
Quixote  "  of  romanticism  —  doing  for  it  what 
Cervantes  did  for  chivalry  —  is  Flaubert's 
"  Madame  Bovary."  The  theme  of  this  novel 
which  has  exerted  such  a  profound  influence 
upon  French  fiction  is  told  in  six  lines  at  the 
end  of  the  fifth  chapter:  — 

"  Before  her  marriage,  she  believed  herself  in  love, 
but  as  the  happiness  which  should  have  resulted  from 
that  love  did  not  come,  she  imagined  that  she  must  have 
been  mistaken.  And  Emma  endeavored  to  discover 
exactly  what  people  understood  in  life  by  those  words 
felicity,  passion,  intoxication,  which  had  seemed  to  her 
so  beautiful  in  books." 

A  romantic  temperament  put  into  real  dis- 
tasteful surroundings,  the  fine  false  senti- 


238  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

ment  of  books  tested  by  life  as  it  is :  it  is 
no  wonder  that  with  such  a  theme  "  Madame 
Bovary  "  is  a  masterpiece.  Victor  Hugo,  De 
Vigny,  and  the  other  romanticists  had  prided 
themselves  on  their  "local  color,"  but  the 
localities  were  far  away  —  in  time  or  place : 
Flaubert  took  the  Normandy  of  his  own 
day,  and  studied  its  provincialism  as  Darwin 
studied  a  pigeon ;  he  was  a  passionate  wor- 
shiper of  style ;  when  he  composed  his  book, 
he  agonized  over  every  sentence.  "  Madame 
Bovary "  is  incomparably  written ;  it  is  ab- 
solutely realistic  ;  its  tone  is  cool,  detached, 
brutal ;  like  "  The  Scarlet  Letter,"  it  is  a  piece 
of  work  that  some  one  ought  to  do,  done  once 
for  all. 

Followers  oi  Flaubert's  method  has  been  fol- 
Fiauuert.  lowed — of  course  with  some  modi- 
fications—  by  numberless  pupils  in  the  past 
thirty  years :  by  Zola,  a  man  of.  undoubted 
talent,  of  extraordinary  imagination,  who 
would  have  distinguished  himself  in  any 
school  of  fiction,  but  who  has  offered  himself 
as  the  champion  of  realism  in  his  critical  es- 
says, and  in  his  writings  has  done  more  than 
any  dozen  other  men  to  bring  realism  into 
disrepute ;  by  Daudet,  who  had  that  gift  of 


REALISM  239 

sympathy  which  has  always  marked  English 
realism,  and  with  it  a  delicacy  of  perception, 
a  mastery  of  language,  a  knowledge  of  tech- 
nique, which  placed  him  at  the  head  of  his 
profession ;  by  Maupassant,  who  might  ap- 
parently have  done  anything — that  is,  any- 
thing a  pessimist  can  do  in  fiction  —  had 
not  his  brain  given  way :  and  by  a  host  of 
lesser  men,  who  have  now  broken  up  into 
smaller  groups  or  followed  their  individual 
caprice  or  conviction,  for  plain  realism  has 
long  since  gone  out  of  fashion  in  Paris. 

We   must   pass   over   the  great 
names  and  great  books  that  realism  American 
may  claim  for  itself  in  Spain  and 
Italy  and  Russia  ;  and  likewise  the  names  and 
books  of  the  American  writers  who  have  been 
in  fullest  sympathy  with  the  realistic  move- 
ment.    Ours  has  been  a  day  of  international 
influences  in  literature.     American   authors 
have  been  quick  to  learn  from  foreign  mas- 
ters, and  better  still,  have  been  fertile  enough 
to  write  their  own  books  in  their  own  way. 
Realism   has   shown    its   fairer   side  in   the 
American    fiction  of   the   last   twenty  -  five 
years.     It  has  betrayed  its  limitations,  to  be 
sure,   and   nowhere  so  markedly  as   in  the 


240  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

novels  of  the  men  who  have  stood  before  the 
public  as  the  typical  realists  ;  but  leaving  that 
aside  for  the  moment,  how  observant,  honest, 
clever,  sympathetic,  delicate,  in  a  word  how 
artistic,  has  been  and  is  to-day  the  realistic 
fiction  of  our  own  countrymen  and  country- 
women ! 


TUB  remain-  ^ave  examined  the   theory 

ing  Questions.  of  rea]ism  and  have  glanced,  how- 

ever briefly,  at  its  historical  development.  It 
remains  for  us  to  inquire  :  What,  after  all, 
has  realism  accomplished  ?  What  are  its 
limitations,  its  dangers  ?  Finally,  is  the  ul- 
timate question  in  the  art  of  fiction  one  of 
method  ? 

What,  then,  has  realism  accom- 

Reallsm  has         f   i      t  n      -r        i        n  t  •     i 

opened  new  pushed  (  In  the  tirst  place,  it  has 
opened  new  fields  to  the  artist. 
Every  great  literary  movement  has  indeed 
done  that.  Romanticism  cried  "  Back  to 
nature  —  to  feeling,"  but  what  was  meant 
by  "  nature  "  was  romantic  nature,  by  "  feel- 
ing," romantic  emotions.  There  is  but  one 
aspect  of  nature,  one  element  of  passion  that 
is  romantic,  to  twenty  that  are  not  ;  and 
realism  has  insisted  that  all  of  these  are  at 


REALISM  241 

the  disposal  of  the  novelist.  It  has  called 
nothing  common,  and,  alas,  very  few  things 
unclean.  It  has  demolished  the  park  wall 
that  used  to  divide  themes  unforbidden  from 
those  forbidden  to  the  artist ;  it  has  advised 
him  to  take  his  brush  and  palette  and  to  stray 
through  the  inclosure  at  will.  It  has  given 
him  absolute  liberty  to  portray  things  as  he 
finds  them,  and  the  range  and  freshness  and 
vividness  of  the  artist's  work  have  shown  what 
an  immense  stimulus  there  is  in  freedom. 
And  realism  has  created  a  new  _ 

Created  a 

technique.      Tell   a   man    he  may  newtecii- 

.  .  .  nlque. 

paint  anything,  provided  he  gives 
you  the  sense  of  actuality,  renders  the  sub- 
ject as  it  is,  and  if  he  have  the  true  artist's 
passion  for  technical  perfection,  he  will  learn 
to  paint  anything.  In  exact  correspondence 
with  that  marvelous  technical  power  exhib- 
ited in  modern  French  pictures  of  the  re- 
alistic school,  there  has  been  developed  in 
realistic  fiction  a  fidelity,  a  life-likeness,  a 
vividness,  a  touch,  which  are  extraordinary 
and  new.  Tolstoi  describes  a  man  standing 
upon  the  steps  of  his  club,  drawing  on  his 
gloves  ;  it  is  nothing,  and  yet  the  picture  is 
unforgettable.  Hardy  describes  the  gloves 


242  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

of  a  working- woman  gathering  turnips  on  an 
English  upland,  and  the  image  haunts  you. 
Here  are  a  few  lines  exemplifying  this  new 
method  in  English  fiction.  Tess  of  the 
D'Urbervilles,  desolate  and  forsaken,  is  ring- 
ing the  doorbell  of  the  empty  parsonage 
where  the  father  and  mother  of  her  husband 
had  lived. 

"  Nobody  answered  to  her  ringing.  The  effort  had 
to  be  risen  to,  and  made  again.  She  rang  a  second 
time,  and  the  agitation  of  the  act,  coupled  with  her 
weariness  after  the  fourteen  miles'  walk,  led  her  to  sup- 
port herself  while  she  waited  by  resting  her  hand  on 
her  hip,  and  her  elbow  against  the  wall  of  the  porch. 
The  wind  was  so  drying  that  the  ivy-leaves  had  become 
wizened  and  gray,  each  tapping  incessantly  upon  its 
neighbors  with  a  disquieting  stir  of  her  nerves.  A  piece 
of  blood-stained  paper,  caught  up  from  some  meat  buy- 
er's dust-heap,  beat  up  and  down  the  road  without  the 
gate  ;  too  flimsy  to  rest,  too  heavy  to  fly  away  ;  and  a 
few  straws  kepi  it  company." 

We  may  look  through  the  whole  range  of 
fiction,  and  we  shall  not  find  until  our  own 
day,  and  among  the  realists,  a  piece  of 
blood-stained  paper,  beating  impotently  in 
the  wind,  used  artistically,  as  a  bit  of  the 
setting,  to  intensify  the  desolation,  the  hor- 
ror, that  are  falling  upon  the  spirit  of  the 
forsaken  wife. 


243 

But  realism  has  had  relations  to 

Realism  and 

many  other  forces.  It  has  been  the  scientific 
closely  allied  to  that  scientific  tem- 
per which  was  discussed  in  the  fourth  chapter. 
Poetry  and  science,  as  we  have  seen,  meet  in 
the  novel,  and  in  many  of  the  notable  achieve- 
ments of  realism  there  is  more  science  than 
poetry.  The  novels  of  so  indubitable  an  artist 
as  George  Eliot  would  lose  much  of  their  qual- 
ity if  they  lost  the  exact  observation,  the 
analytic  power,  the  faculty  for  generalization, 
which  she  possessed  in  common  with  Pasteur. 
No  one  can  doubt  that  certain  positive  bene- 
fits have  accrued  to  realistic  fiction  in  thus 
linking  itself  with  the  far-reaching  scientific 
spirit  of  our  time.  It  has  gained  in  precision, 
solidity,  breadth.  But  we  must  in  a  moment 
inquire  whether  it  has  gained,  in  relation  to 
qualities  even  higher  than  these,  through  its 
association  with  science. 

Realism,   too,   has    had    clearly  Reiationsto 
marked  lines  of  relationship  with  JjyShST 
the    democratic  spirit.     We  must  Uanlty- 
touch  upon  these  in  the  chapter  devoted  to 
the  tendencies  of  American  fiction.     Further- 
more, I  think  it  may  fairly  be  claimed  that 
the  theory  on  which  realism  is  based  is  in 


344  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

close  accord  with  the  spirit  of  Christianity. 
For  the  theory  of  realism  teaches  that  the 
"  every-day  life  of  all "  is  worth  something 
—  if  only  worth  describing ;  it  teaches  the 
reality  of  our  present  experiences,  the  sig- 
nificance of  common  things.  In  childhood, 
perhaps,  the  real  is  too  near,  too  obvious,  to 
be  attractive.  We  have  seen  big  boys  ;  tell 
us  the  story  of  the  Giants  !  We  have  played 
with  the  rocking-horse;  please  read  to  us  about 
Bucephalus  and  the  Centaurs !  The  far- 
away attracts  us  with  a  romantic  charm ; 
anywhere  rather  than  here  is  where  we  child- 
ishly long  to  be.  These  illusions  fade  as  we 
grow  older  ;  it  is  perhaps  after  a  long  period 
of  disillusion  that  we  turn  suddenly  to  the 
real.  Here  is  our  world, 

..."  Here  we  find 
Our  destined  happiness,  or  not  at  all." 

The  actual  grows  spiritually  significant. 
The  world  becomes  intelligible,  interesting. 
It  is  a  live  world  —  God's  world.  The  forces 
about  us  are  real  forces  ;  the  men  and  women 
we  know  are  real  personalities.  Therefore 
we  say  to  the  novelist :  "  Show  us  as  much 
of  this  most  real  of  all  worlds  as  you  can. 
Let  us  see  how  deep  is  your  vision  ;  does  it 


REALISM  245 

penetrate  as  the  Eternal  Vision  penetrates,  is 
it  as  comprehensive  as  that,  as  loving  as  that  ?  " 

Said  the  Russian  novelist  Gogol :  "  I  have 
studied  life  as  it  really  is,  not  in  dreams  of 
the  imagination  ;  and  thus  I  have  come  to  a 
conception  of  Him  who  is  the  source  of  all 
life." 

It  is  the  sentimentalist,  the  ro- 
manticist, who  exclaims:  "I  have  "tte&very- 
enough  of  ordinary  life ;  I  experi-     7  me' 
ence  it  ad  nauseam  ;  give  me  the  diamond, 
the  unusual,  the  far-away,  the  exceptional." 
That  was  exactly  the  cry  of  Emma  Bovary, 
poor   Emma    Bovary    who,    in    Brunetiere's 
words,  is  just  like  all  of  us,  only  a  trifle  too 
sensual  and  endowed  with  too  little  intelli- 
gence to  accept  the  daily  duty,  to  learn  its 
charm  and  its  latent  poetry.     The  value  of 
"  the  every-day  life  "  to  the  more  thoughtful 
type  of  mind  has  been  well  expressed  by 
Richard  Holt  Hutton  in  his  essay  on  Shel- 
ley :  — 

"  Poets,  and  artists,  and  thinkers,  and  theologians, 
who  hunger  after  reality,  hold,  we  suppose,  that  the 
actual  combination  of  qualities  and  substances  and 
personal  influences  as  God  has  made  them,  contains 
something  much  better  worth  knowing  and  imagining 
accurately,  than  any  recast  they  could  effect  of  their 


246  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

own.  They  believe  in  the  infinite  significance  of  actual 
ties.  And  those  who  feel  this,  as  all  realists  do  usu- 
ally feel  it,  must  cherish  a  certain  spirit  of  faithful 
tenacity  at  the  bottom  of  their  minds,  a  respect  for  the 
mere  fact  of  existence,  a  wish  to  see  good  reason  before 
they  separate  things  joined  together  by  nature,  and 
perhaps,  they  will  think,  by  divine  law ;  a  disposition 
to  cling  to  the  details  of  experience,  as  having  at  least 
a  presumptive  sacredness  ;  nay,  they  feel  even  a  higher 
love  for  such  beauty  as  is  presented  to  them  in  the 
real  universe,  than  for  any  which  is  got  by  the  dissolv- 
ing and  recomposing  power  of  their  own  eclectic  ideal- 
ism." Literary  Essays,  p.  174. 

Now  the   great   realists   in   fio 

Thesignlii- 

canoe  oi  the  tion  take  the  every-day  lire  or  all ; 
from  the  material  furnished  by  the 
average  man  in  the  ordinary  situation  they 
form  their  work  of  art.  They  reveal  —  at 
their  best  moments  —  the  reality  of  things ; 
that  is,  the  spiritual  and  enduring  side  of 
things,  the  divine  in  the  human,  God's  world 
existing  in  and  through  our  world.  It  is 
in  this  sense  that  Christianity  is  on  the  side 
of  realism,  because  Christianity  deepens  our 
sense  of  the  actual,  and  of  the  eternal  signifi- 
cance of  the  Here  and  Now,  of  the  infi- 
nite potentialities  of  character.  When  we 
have  learned  to  look  at  men  and  women  as 
they  are,  the  world  as  it  is,  to  see  in  it  some- 


REALISM  247 

thing  of  perennial  freshness  and  suggestive- 
ness,  to  feel  it  beating  with  the  Infinite  Heart, 
then  the  writer  of  fiction  who  can  interpret 
human  life  to  us  most  closely,  most  sympa- 
thetically, bring  it  to  us  most  intimately,  is 
the  realist.  But  if  the  actual  world  is  en- 
nuyeux  to  us,  then  we  should  logically  take 
refuge  in  another  sort  of  fiction,  —  in  the 
stories  of  other  times  and  other  places,  of 
other  orders  of  beings,  acting  under  condi- 
tions different  from  our  own.  If  the  sunlight, 
the  clear,  frank  sunlight,  is  too  strong  for 
us,  or  too  colorless,  let  us  by  all  means  spread 
a  purple  awning,  and  diffuse  a  romantic  at- 
mosphere of  our  own. 

In  what  has  just  been  written,  I  Llmltations 
have  made  the  very  highest  claim  ofreaUsm- 
for  the  possibilities  of  realistic  art.  Yet  it 
is  easy  to  see  the  limitations  of  realism.  The 
realist  says  :  "  I  paint  things  as  they  are,  the 
world  as  it  is ;  "  but  by  this  he  means  neces- 
sarily things  as  they  are  to  him,  the  world  as 
it  is  to  him.  However  objective  he  strives 
to  be,  he  looks  out  upon  the  world  through 
the  lens  of  his  own  personality.  His  art  is 
conditioned  upon  his  vision,  his  physical 


248  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

vision,  his  psychical  vision.  In  the  very 
nature  of  the  case,  that  vision  is  more  or  less 
contracted,  blurred.  What  he  takes  for 
reality  may  not  be  reality.  There  is  but  one 
real  world,  and  that  is  God's  world.  The 
novelist's  world,  depend  upon  it,  will  be  but 
an  imperfect  copy  ;  what  he  calls  the  real 
world  will  be  his  own  world,  not  God's  world, 
but  a  Turgenieff  world,  a  Thomas  Hardy 
world,  a  Miss  Wilkins  world.  Alas  !  what 
distortion  !  what  pitiful  limitation  !  A  real- 
ist with  well-nigh  perfect  physical  vision 
may  have  what  the  brain  specialists  call  psy- 
chic blindness,  —  inability  to  perceive  the 
meaning  of  the  visual  impression.  He  may 
be  a  pure  materialist,  seeing  only  the  animal 
side  of  life,  devoting  great  talents  to  the 
analysis  of  wrath  and  love  as  functions  of  the 
bodily  organism.  He  may  steadfastly  ignore 
those  hopes  and  aspirations  that  reach  out 
beyond  the  confines  of  mortality,  that  lay 
hold  upon  the  world  to  come. 

And  realism  has  its  dangers  as 

Its  dangers:  .        ..  . 

well  as  its  limitations.     Ihe  realist 


must  represent  actualities  ;  he  must 
study  them  objectively  ;  he  must  be  an  ob- 
server ;  and  nothing  is  easier  than  for  him 


REALISM  249 

to  learn  to  observe  without  sympathy.  This 
is,  as  the  reader  may  remember,  what  Haw- 
thorne dreaded  ;  it  is  the  theme  of  his  "  Ethan 
Brand."  It  is  the  "  detachment "  which  has 
been  one  of  the  catchwords  of  French  real- 
ism, and  which  explains  why  so  much  of  the 
fiction  of  the  last  generation  in  France,  with 
all  its  wonderful  qualities,  has  nevertheless 
been  so  pitiless. 

Another  danger  for  realism  lies 

i  I-,  Technique 

m  that  very  technical  excellence  ana  netting 
which  the  French  writers  have 
brought  to  such  perfection.  To  the  vivid 
rendering  of  the  appearances  of  things,  other 
qualities  equally  important  to  artistic  work 
of  a  high  rank  have  been  sacrificed.  Tech- 
nique and  nothing  back  of  it  is  a  besetting 
foe  to  the  realist.  It  is  so  much  easier  to 
start  with  painting  the  surface,  to  be  content 
with  outdoing  one's  rivals  in  cleverness,  in 
tricks  of  the  brush,  in  "  impressionism."  But 
the  cleverest  record  of  fact,  the  most  sensitive 
rendering  of  atmosphere,  fails,  by  itself,  to 
make  fiction  vital.  The  lack  of  imagination 
in  some  of  those  books  whose  technical  work- 
manship seems  beyond  praise  is  startling. 
By  imagination  I  do  not  mean  a  journey  into 


250  A   STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

cloudland,  but  the  power  of  seeing  real  things 
imaginatively.  One  of  the  Goncourt  brothers 
puts  forth  this  request  in  a  preface  to  a 
novel :  — 

"  I  want  to  write  a  novel  which  shall  be  the  study 
of  a  young  girl,  —  a  novel  founded  on  human  docu- 
ments. I  find  that  books  about  women,  written  by 
men,  lack  feminine  collaboration.  The  impressions  of 
a  little  girl,  confidences  as  to  her  feelings  at  the  time 
of  confirmation,  her  sensations  when  she  first  goes  into 
society,  the  unveiling  of  the  most  delicate  emotions, — 
in  a  word,  all  the  unknown  femininity  at  the  depths  of 
a  woman,  these  are  what  I  need.  And  I  ask  my  femi- 
nine readers,  in  those  unoccupied  hours,  when  the  past, 
in  its  gloom  or  happiness,  rises  before  them,  to  write 
these  thoughts  or  memories  down  for  me,  to  send  them 
to  me  anonymously  at  the  address  of  my  publisher." 

Comment  upon  the  delicacy  of  this  propo- 
sition is  quite  needless,  but  did  ever  a  pro- 
fessed artist  make  a  more  pitiful  confession 
of  his  own  imaginative  sterility?  To  put 
yourself  in  another  person's  place  is  the  first 
law  of  the  novelist's  creative  imagination ; 
this  disciple  of  Flaubert  stretches  forth  his 
hands  impotently  for  the  other  person's  docu- 
ments. 

Facts  not  ^  *s  jus*  nere  that  ^ne  alliance 

*nou*h'         of  realism  with  the  scientific  spirit, 


REALISM  251 

which,  as  we  have  seen,  has  given  fiction 
precision,  solidity,  breadth,  has  nevertheless 
with  some  schools  of  fiction  wrought  irrepa- 
rable mischief.  The  scientific  temper,  un- 
transmuted  by  artistic  feeling,  has  never  been 
of  value  in  any  of  the  fine  arts  ;  the  applica- 
tion of  scientific  methods  to  fiction  has  time 
and  again  crowded  the  creative  imagination 
off  the  field  to  make  room  for  the  documents. 
There  is  of  course  an  endless  variety  in  na- 
ture and  in  human  nature,  but  an  endless 
succession  of  realists,  working  merely  by  sci- 
entifically accurate  observation  and  record, 
can  never  produce  a  great  novel  any  more 
than  an  endless  succession  of  photographers 
can  produce  a  great  picture.  They  can  give 
us  a  marvelous  array  of  facts,  but  fact  is  not 
fiction.  Science  cares  for  facts,  art,  in  the 
high  sense,  for  facts  only  as  they  reveal  truths ; 
and  unless  the  writer  of  fiction  uses  facts  to 
explain  truths,  his  work  is  like  the  dead  iron 
before  it  is  carbonized  into  steel,  like  prose 
un crystallized  into  poetry. 

The  last  danger  that  the  realist 

U  Iu  V     •  '£ 

runs  is  perhaps  the  most  obvious,  it 

it  be  not  the  worst.     It  is  the  danger,  already 

elluded  to  in  a  previous  chapter,  of  represent- 


262  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

ing  the  body  rather  than  the  mind,  the  physi- 
ological to  the  exclusion  of  the  psychological. 
A  reviewer  in  the  "  New  York  Evening;  Post " 

o 

has  put  this  sharply,  but  not  unjustly. 

"  It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  what  we  have  called  ani- 
malism others  pronounce  wonderful  realism.  We  use 
the  word  animalism  for  the  sake  of  clearness,  to  denote 
a  species  of  realism  which  deals  with  man  considered 
as  an  animal,  capable  of  hunger,  thirst,  lust,  cruelty, 
vanity,  fear,  sloth,  predacity,  greed,  and  other  passions 
and  appetites  that  make  him  kin  to  the  brutes,  but 
which  neglects,  so  far  as  possible,  any  higher  qualities 
which  distinguish  him  from  his  four-footed  relatives, 
such  as  humor,  thought,  reason,  aspiration,  affection, 
morality,  and  religion.  Real  life  is  full  of  the  contrasts 
between  these  conflicting  tendencies,  but  the  object  of 
the  animalistic  school  seems  always  to  make  a  study  of 
the  genus  homo  which  shall  recall  the  menagerie  at 
feeding-time  rather  than  human  society." 

There  is  plenty  of  animalism  in  human  so- 
ciety, as  everybody  knows ;  but  this  does  not 
justify  a  man  of  talent  in  writing  as  if  there 
were  nothing  but  animalism.  The  novelists 
who  have  followed  their  morbid-minded  lead- 
ers over  the  park  wall,  in  search  of  material 
which  has  hitherto  been  considered  too  sacred 
or  too  horrible  to  be  used  by  fiction,  have 
been  so  severely  taken  to  task  for  it  by  the 
best  critics,  that  we  may  content  ourselves 


REALISM  263 

with  a  single  remark.  Crossing  the  park 
wall  leaves  a  man  no  better  painter  than  he 
was  before.  He  may  sit  outside,  with  brushes 
and  colors  and  palette,  and  sigh  for  the  for- 
bidden subjects.  He  may  then  cry, 

"  Down  with  Reticence,  down  with  Reverence  —  forward  "  — 

and  follow  his  indefatigable  leader  across  the 
broken  wall ;  he  may  select  his  forbidden  fruit 
and  begin  to  paint  it.  Very  well ;  he  is  just 
the  same  painter  as  ever :  no  more  true  of  eye, 
no  more  skillful  of  hand ;  indeed,  since  the 
man  must  often  cross  the  barrier  between  de- 
cency and  indecency  with  the  artist,  the  hand 
may  not  be  so  steady,  nor  the  eye  so  clear. 
What  then  is  gained  ?  The  picture,  the  book, 
sells  to  a  debased  public,  which  it  helps  still 
further  to  debase ;  but  to  a  sensitive  writer 
of  fiction  there  can  scarcely  be  a  worse  re- 
proach than  the  thought  that  a  book  has  sold 
at  the  expense  of  the  artistic  capacity  of  the 
writer  himself. 

No  more  powerful  protest  against 

,1  •  l-  U  1    Thetestt- 

this  naturalism  has  yet  appeared  moHyoi 
than  the  one  uttered  by  the  Span- 
ish   novelist  Valdes   in    the   preface  to  his 
"Sister  St.  Sulpice:"  — 


254  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

*•'!  believe  firmly  with  the  naturalist  writers  that 
/nan  represents  on  this  planet  the  ultimate  phase  of  ani« 
mal  evolution,  and  that  on  this  supposition  the  study  of 
his  animal  instincts  and  passions  is  interesting,  and  ex- 
plains a  great  number  of  his  actions.  But  this  study 
lias  for  me  only  a  historic  value,  because  if  man  pro- 
reeds  directly  from  animality,  every  day  he  goes  far- 
ther and  farther  away  from  it,  and  this  and  nothing  else 
is  the  basis  of  our  own  progress.  We  come  surely  from 
the  instinctive,  the  unconscious,  the  necessary,  but  we 
are  going  forward  toward  the  rational,  the  conscious, 
and  the  free.  Therefore  the  study  of  all  that  refers  to 
the  rational,  free,  and  conscious  mind  as  the  explanation 
of  a  great  proportion  of  human  acts,  the  only  noble  and 
worthy  ones,  is  far  superior  to  the  first.  It  is  more 
interesting  to  study  man  as  man  than  as  an  animal,  al- 
though the  naturalist  school  thinks  otherwise.  ...  In 
order  that  there  should  be  beauty  in  man,  it  is  neces- 
sary that  he  show  himself  as  man,  and  not  as  brute." 

The  bank-  ^  ^S  *°  sucn  CaUSGS  that  WC  HlUSt 

reaUMttln  assign  the  bankruptcy  of  realism  in 
prance.  France.  It  has  ventured  as  far 
into  forbidden  territory  as  any  fiction  is  ever 
likely  to  go,  and  it  has  brought  back  pictures 
that  defile  the  imagination  and  sicken  the 

O 

heart.  It  has  made  disreputable  an  artistic 
method  which  in  other  countries,  and  in  the 
hands  of  many  a  French  writer,  has  served 
great  ends.  The  limits  have  long  since  been 
reached,  and  before  the  close  of  the  nine- 


REALISM  256 

teenth  century  the  Paris  critics  began  coolly 
to  balance  the  assets  and  liabilities  of  realism, 
as  with  the  ledgers  of  a  wrecked  concern. 

Yet  in  England  and  America,  The  tatl|w  ^ 
and  indeed  everywhere  outside  this  reaUsm- 
eddy  in  a  single  European  city,  the  currents  of 
realism  have  by  no  means  spent  their  force. 
Realism  has  wrought  itself  too  thoroughly 
into  the  picture  of  the  modern  world,  it  is  too 
significant  a  movement,  to  allow  any  doubt 
as  to  the  permanence  of  its  influence.  It  is 
true  that  in  the  opening  years  of  the  twen- 
tieth century  we  Americans  are  witnessing  a 
sort  of  "  Romantic  Revival,"  whose  devotees 
are  complaisant  toward  any  books  that  excite 
and  entertain  them.  In  the  face  of  this  un- 
appeasable and  perfectly  legitimate  thirst  for 
romance,  has  the  realistic  method  vitality 
enough  to  hold  its  own  ? 

In  art,  no  method,  of  itself,  has 
vitality;  it  is  men  that  have  vitality,  of  men,  not 

mi  i  £  i.    ol  method. 

The  only  promise  or  permanent 
life  for  a  novel  is  in  the  creative  imagination 
of  the  writer.  Everything  else  has  been 
proved  transient.  No  "  ism "  can  save  a 
book  beyond  an  hour.  The  ultimate  ques- 
tion in  the  art  of  fiction,  therefore,  is  not 


256  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

what  is  the  method  of  to-day,  of  the  future ;  it 
is,  what  are  the  men  who  are  to  be  back  of  the 
method  ?  In  place,  therefore,  of  speculating 
as  to  the  future  of  realism,  let  us  turn  to  the 
future  realist,  and  assert  what  manner  of  man 
he  must  be  if  realism  is  to  be  credited  with 
any  coming  triumphs.  The  assertion  may 
be  made  very  positively,  it  seems  to  me,  and 
in  very  simple  terms. 

"  Guy  de  Maupassant  sees,"  said 

Seeing,  fe«l-  J  .r  / 

ing,  and         a  recent  magazine  writer,      Pierre 

thinking.  T      •    t>     i       T»IT»  i  •    i      i> 

.  Loti  ieels,  Paul  Bourget  thinks. 
Each  of  these  admirable  but  highly  specialized 
artists  represents  a  quality  that  is  essential  to 
the  greatest  writers  of  fiction.  How  clearly 
Maupassant  sees,  how  sensitively  Pierre  Loti 
feels,  how  delicate  and  grave  is  the  thinking 
of  Bourget !  The  organization,  let  us  say,  is 
perfect.  But  what  does  this  one  see,  and  that 
one  feel,  and  the  other  one  think  ?  Does 
Maupassant  bring  to  us  nothing  more  than 
the  pitilessness  of  life,  Loti  the  pathos  of  life, 
Bourget  a  sense  of  the  confusion  of  life  ?  We 
have  a  right  to  demand  of  the  future  novelist 
that  he  shall  see  and  feel  and  think.  But  he 
shall  see  things  as  they  are,  the  world  as  it 
is;  God's  world.  He  shall  feel  in  the  men 


REALISM  257 

and  women  around  him  the  revelation  of  the 
mystery  of  life.  He  shall  think  nobly,  be- 
cause truly.  And  his  shall  be  such  mastery  of 
his  material  that  no  technical  resource  shall 
be  unknown  to  him,  no  feat  of  creative  im- 
agination too  hard  for  him ;  and  by  virtue  of 
that  mastery  he  shall  make  us  see  and  feel 
and  think,  so  that  when  we  read  his  book  it 
may  be  with  the  joy  of  deeper  insight  and 
quicker  sympathy  and  a  new  hold  on  truth. 
Truth  shall  be  the  key  word  of  his  art,  and 
the  truth  that  he  reveals  shall  be  seen  of  us 
as  beauty. 

When  that  man  comes,  I  should  call  him  a 
realist :  but  he  is  welcome  to  call  himself  an 
idealist,  a  romanticist,  or  any  other  name  he 
likes.  And  while  we  are  waiting,  we  can 
turn  once  more  the  pages  of  "  Amelia  "  and 
"  Henry  Esmond  "  and  "  Adam  Bede." 


CHAPTER  X 

ROMANTICISM 

"  I  cannot  get  on  with  Books  about  the  Daily  Life  which  I 
find  rather  insufferable  in  practice  about  me.  I  never  could 
read  Miss  Austen,  nor  (later)  the  famous  George  Eliot.  Give 
me  People,  Places,  and  Things  which  I  don't  and  can't  see  ; 
Antiquaries,  Jeanie  Deans,  Dalgettys,  etc.  ...  As  to  Thack- 
eray's, they  are  terrible  ;  I  really  look  at  them  on  the  shelf  and 
am  half  afraid  to  touch  them.  He,  you  know,  could  go  deeper 
into  the  Springs  of  Common  Action  than  these  Ladies ;  wonder- 
ful he  is,  but  not  Delightful,  which  one  thirsts  for  as  one  geta 
old  and  dry." 

Edward  FitzGerald  to  S.  Laurence,  December  30,  1875. 

"  The  discussion  is  quite  vain,  into  which  so  many  fishermen 
have  gone,  on  the  question  whether  the  artificial  fly  is  to  be 
used  on  the  imitation  theory.  Trout  take  some  flies  because 
they  resemble  the  real  fly  on  which  they  feed.  They  take 
other  flies  for  no  such  reason.  And  in  this  they  are  like  men." 
W.  C.  PRIME,  I  Go  A-Fishing. 

its  various          ^  the  discussion  of  romanticism, 

meanings.         ag  Q£  realigmj  one  {s  fjrst  of  all  con, 

fronted  by  the  fact  that  the  word  is  capable 
of  many  varieties  of  meaning.  Its  signifi- 
cance shifts  as  the  critic  passes  from  one 
country,  one  generation,  one  group  of  men, 
to  another.  Fortunately  for  the  student  of 


ROMANTICISM  259 

literature,  however,  there  have  been  many 
brilliant  and  scholarly  treatises  upon  the  char- 
acter and  history  of  romanticism.  Some  of 
the  most  important  books  and  articles  upon 
the  subject  are  mentioned  in  the  bibliography 
for  the  present  chapter  in  the  Appendix.  It 
will  be  sufficient  for  our  present  purpose  to  ex- 
plain the  more  general  meanings  which  have 
been  attached  to  the  word,  and  to  indicate 
briefly  the  role  which  romanticism  has  played 
in  various  national  literatures.  We  can  then 
pass  to  the  discussion  of  romanticism  in  fic- 
tion, and  endeavor  to  see  what  qualities  it  im- 
plies in  the  writer,  the  book,  and  the  public. 

One  of  the  most  famous  discus- 
sions of  romanticism  is  to  be  found 
in  Hegel's  "  ^Esthetics."  He  points  out  that 
in  the  evolution  of  art  there  are  three  phases 
which  characterize  different  stages  of  its  de- 
velopment. The  first  of  these  phases  is  the 
symbolic,  in  which,  according  to  Hegel,  the 
material  element  overmasters  the  spiritual 
element.  Most  architecture  may  be  said  to 
remain  permanently  in  this  symbolic  stage. 
Next  comes  the  classic  phase,  where  the 
material  and  spiritual  elements  are  in  equi- 
librium. This  phase  is  best  represented  by 


260  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

sculpture.  Finally  comes  the  romantic  phase, 
where  the  spiritual  element  predominates  over 
the  material,  and  which  is  best  exemplified 
by  the  arts  of  music,  painting,  and  poetry. 
Hegel  points  out,  furthermore,  that  these 
three  phases  may  be  illustrated  in  the  history 
of  any  one  art.  In  sculpture,  for  instance, 
although  as  a  whole  it  is  predominantly 
classic,  there  may  be  traced  distinctively  sym- 
bolic, classic,  and  romantic  periods.  While 
later  critics  have  shown  that  this  analysis  of 
Hegel's  must  be  subjected  to  many  modifi- 
cations, it  remains  an  extremely  suggestive 
one,  and  affords  a  convenient  starting  point 
for  our  own  discussion, 
-classic"  Every  educated  person  is  more 
mantle"0"  or  ^ess  distinctly  aware  of  certain 
qualities.  qualities  which,  when  evidenced  in 
a  work  of  art,  are  by  common  consent  called 
"  classic."  These  classic  qualities  may  be 
indicated  by  terms  like  "  purity  of  feeling," 
"  reserve,"  "  perfection  of  form."  It  is  true 
that  these  qualities  are  often  accompanied  by 
such  defects  as  coldness  and  formalism. 
There  are  likewise  certain  "  romantic  "  quali- 
ties suggested  by  the  very  word  itself  ;  for  in- 
stance, freedom,  warmth,  expressiveness.  In 


ROMANTICISM  261 

attaining  these  qualities  the  artist  frequently 
runs  the  risk  of  falling  into  lawlessness,  into 
the  caprices  of  a  disordered  imagination. 
What  seems  significant  to  him  may  be  vague 
or  even  meaningless  to  us ;  for  the  romantic 
artist,  generally  speaking,  deals  more  with 
the  emotional  element  than  with  the  purely 
intellectual  factors  that  enter  into  the  work 
of  art. 

But,  however  one  may  choose  to 

7  J  .  ninstrationg. 

denne  classic  and  romantic  charac- 
teristics, it  is  apparent  that  in  all  the  arts  it  is 
possible  to  point  out  specific  objects  which 
are  characterized  by  one  or  the  other  group 
of  qualities  already  mentioned.  Thus  the 
Parthenon  is  classic ;  Cologne  Cathedral  ro- 
mantic ;  the  Apollo  Belvedere  classic ;  Ro- 
din's "  Apollo  "  romantic ;  the  "  Antigone  " 
of  Sophocles  classic ;  "  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream "  of  Shakespeare  romantic ;  Beetho- 
ven's music  —  in  its  general  features  at  least 
—  classic  ;  Chopin's  romantic.  However 
widely  critics  may  be  inclined  to  differ  in 
their  assessment  of  the  value  of  such  repre- 
sentative works  of  art  as  those  just  named, 
they  would  agree  in  the  general  classification 
here  given.  We  find,  then,  that  it  is  possi- 


262  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

ble  to  apply  to  literature,  as  well  as  to  the 
other  arts  of  expression,  the  term  romantic. 
Let  us  try  to  see  still  more  precisely  what 
the  word  connotes. 

Romantio  The  last  century  is  rich  in  ex- 

tn°m«atu« :  amples  °f  romantic  movements  in 
England.  literature.  In  England,  Germany, 
and  France  there  have  been  sharply  denned 
romantic  periods,  illuminated  by  great  names 
and  producing  memorable  works.  These 
periods  have  had  their  special  characteristics, 
their  peculiar  modes  of  development  and 
channels  of  expression.  Yet  underneath  all 
these  differences  it  is  easy  to  see  that  common 
factors  have  been  at  work.  In  England,  for 
instance,  we  can  trace  far  back  in  the  eight- 
eenth century  the  beginnings  of  the  roman- 
tic temper.  Professor  Beers 1  and  Professor 
Phelps2  have  devoted  interesting  chapters  to 
the  first  impulses,  feeble  and  imitative  as  these 
were,  to  break  away  from  the  frigid  conven- 
tions into  which  the  great  Augustan  tradi- 

1  A  History  of  English  Romanticism  in  the  Eighteenth 
Century.  By  H.  A.  Beers.  New  York  :  Henry  Holt,  1899. 
See  also  A  History  of  English  Romanticism  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century.  By  the  same  author.  New  York  :  Holt,  1901. 

3  The  Beginnings  of  the  English  Romantic  Movement.  By 
W.  L.  Phelps.  Boston  :  Ginn,  1893. 


ROMANTICISM  263 

tions  had  degenerated.  The  English  romantic 
movement  came  to  its  perfect  flowering  in 
such  men  as  Coleridge  and  Keats,  Scott, 
Byron,  and  Shelley.  Curious  as  were  the 
differences  that  divided  the  leading  English 
romanticists,  making  many  of  them  bitter 
personal  enemies,  these  men  all  held  to  certain 
tenets  of  a  common  creed.  Like  true  children 
of  Rousseau,  they  cried,  "  Back  to  nature," 
emphasizing  particularly  the  picturesque  and 
terrible  aspects  of  natural  scenery.  But  they 
cried  also,  "  Back  to  simple,  elemental  feel- 
ing." From  this  point  of  view,  two  such 
apparently  diverse  poems  as  Wordsworth's 
"  We  are  Seven "  and  Byron's  "  The  Cor- 
sair "  are  in  fundamental  accord.  And  the 
English  romanticists  insisted,  and  with  in- 
creasing fervor  as  the  romantic  movement 
drew  toward  its  close,  "  Let  us  go  back  to 
history,  to  the  manners  and  institutions  of 
our  forefathers."  Yet  curiously  enough, 
though  all  the  English  romanticists  were 
strongly  interested  in  politics,  the  romantic 
movement  in  Great  Britain  left  politics  and 
religion  practically  untouched. 
The  German  romantic  movement, 

...  In  Germany. 

however,  was,  as  many  critics  nave 


264  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

pointed  out,  a  Catholic  renaissance.  It 
was  a  revolt  against  the  classic  paganism  of 
Goethe,  Lessing,  Winckelmann,  and  Schiller. 
It  idolized  Roman  countries,  such  as  Italy ; 
the  authors  of  southern  Europe,  such  as 
Calderon.  In  such  representative  German 
romanticists  as  Tieck,  the  Schlegel  brothers, 
and  Novalis,  there  is  everywhere  to  be  found 
a  love  of  warmth  and  color,  the  worship  of 
enthusiasm,  the  desire  to  become  like  little 
children  in  sensitiveness  to  impressions,  in 
naivete  of  emotion.  Professor  Francke 1  has 
pointed  out  the  three  phases  through  which 
the  German  romantic  movement  swiftly  ran 
its  course  :  first,  that  of  individual  caprice ; 
second,  fantastic  sensualism ;  and  third,  a 
flight  into  the  land  of  the  supernatural  and 
miraculous.  In  politics,  as  it  is  scarcely 
necessary  to  say,  the  German  romantic  move- 
ment was  reactionary.  It  strengthened  the 
hands  of  absolutism  in  government  as  in 
religion. 

In  France,  on  the  other  hand, 

In  France.  . 

the  romantic  movement  was  pagan 
and  republican.     Instead  of  worshiping  the 

1  Publications  of  the  Modern  Language  Association.     New 
aeries,  Vol.  Ill,  No.  1. 


ROMANTICISM  266 

authors  of  southern  Europe,  it  was  most 
strongly  influenced  by  such  men  as  Scott, 
Byron,  and  Shakespeare.  That  is  to  say,  it 
was  a  German,  a  gothic  romanticism,  grafted 
upon  the  French  stock.  The  French  writers 
who  came  in  the  generation  of  the  thirties, 
such  as  Victor  Hugo,  DeVigny,  Musset, 
George  Sand,  and  Balzac,  rescued  the  French 
language  from  the  classic  formalism  into 
which  it  was  in  danger  of  declining.  They 
produced  a  wonderful  literature,  glowing  with 
colors  like  those  of  the  great  romantic  paint- 
ers Delacroix  and  Delaroche,  and  echoing 
with  fantastic  music  like  that  of  Berlioz  and 
Chopin.  They  performed  a  great  patriotic 
service  likewise,  and  in  their  common  worship 
of  art  they  sustained  the  French  tradition  of 
intelligent,  capable  workmanship.  Such  ro- 
mantic literature  as  this  is  sure  to  have  in  its 
own  day  and  generation  an  immense  vogue. 
Whether  it  meets  the  literary  canons  of  suc- 
ceeding generations,  whether  it  contains  in 
itself  those  elements  which  may  one  day  be 
recognized  as  classic,  is  quite  another  matter. 
How  slender,  how  colorless  a  literary  product 
seems  Goldsmith's  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  " 
when  compared  with  Victor  Hugo's  "  Les 


26G  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

Miserables  "  !  And  yet,  as  the  years  go  by, 
it  does  not  seem  hazardous  to  assert  that 
"  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  possesses  certain 
qualities  which  are  likely  to  insure  for  it  a 
more  enduring  life  than  was  imparted  to 
"  Les  Miserables  "  by  the  splendid  exuber- 
ance, the  affluent  fancy,  the  poignant  tragic 
power  of  the  great  Frenchman. 

It  is  only  through  wideacquaint- 

Critical  J  -1 

terms  are  ance  with  the  books  written  during 
one  or  all  of  these  representatively 
romantic  periods  that  one  becomes  gradually 
aware  of  the  elasticity  of  meaning,  as  well  as 
the  persistent  drift  of  meaning,  that  abides 
in  the  term  "  romanticism."  One  perceives 
the  justice  of  some  of  the  famous  definitions 
which  make  it  synonymous  with  "aspiration," 
"mystery,"  "  the  spirit  of  Christianity,"  "the 
emancipation  of  the  ego,"  "  liberalism  in 
literature,"  "  the  renaissance  of  wonder," 
and  "  strangeness  in  beauty,  rather  than 
order  in  beauty."  Yet  many  of  these  defi- 
nitions reveal  their  inadequacy  the  moment 
they  are  applied  to  other  phases  of  romanti- 
cism than  the  particular  one  which  has 
evoked  the  definition.  Romantic  material 
may  be  treated  with  the  spirit  of  classicism ; 


ROMANTICISM  267 

and  conversely  the  romantic  method  may  be 
applied  to  subjects  that  are  severely  classical, 
And  there  is  a  true  and  a  false  romanticism, 
just  as  there  is  a  true  and  a  false  classicism. 
Professor  Beers,  in  the  preface  to  his  "  English 
Romanticism  in  the  Nineteenth  Century,"  re- 
affirms his  right  to  use  romanticism  as  synony- 
mous with  "  medievalism,"  making  it,  in  other 
words,  the  reproduction  in  modern  art  or  liter- 
ature of  the  life  or  thought  of  the  middle  ages. 
The  working  value  of  this  definition  is  indis- 
putable, although  it  needs,  perhaps,  the  fur- 
ther explanation  of  medievalism  which  is 
given  in  these  words  of  Walter  Pater :  — 

"  The  essential  elements,  then,  of  the  romantic  spirit 
are  curiosity  and  the  love  of  beauty  ;  and  it  is  only  as 
an  illustration  of  these  qualities  that  it  seeks  the  Mid- 
dle Age,  because,  in  the  overcharged  atmosphere  of 
the  Middle  Age,  there  are  unworked  sources  of  roman- 
tic effect,  of  a  strange  beauty,  to  be  won,  by  strong 
imagination,  out  of  things  unlikely  or  remote." 1 

There  is  another  passage  in  this  essay  of 
Pater's  which  becomes  particularly  suggestive 
as  one  approaches  the  study  of  romanticism 
in  fiction  :  — 

"There  are  the  born  classicists  who  start  with  form, 
to  whose  minds  the  comeliness  of  the  old,  immemorial, 
1  Appreciations,  p.  26L 


268  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

well-recognized  types  in  art  and  literature  have  re« 
vealed  themselves  impressively ;  who  will  entertain 
no  matter  which  will  not  go  easily  and  flexibly  into 
them  ;  whose  work  aspires  only  to  be  a  variation  upon, 
or  study  from  the  older  masters.  '  'T  is  art's  decline, 
my  son !  '  they  are  always  saying  to  the  progressive 
element  in  their  own  generation ;  to  those  who  care  for 
that  which  in  fifty  years'  time  every  one  will  be  caring 
for.  On  the  other  hand  there  are  the  born  romanti- 
cists, who  start  with  an  original,  untried  matter,  still  in 
fusion  ;  who  conceive  this  vividly,  and  hold  by  it  as 
the  essence  of  their  work  ;  who,  by  the  very  vividness 
and  heat  of  their  conception,  purge  away,  sooner  or 
later,  all  that  is  not  organically  appropriate  to  it,  till 
the  whole  effect  adjusts  itself  in  clear,  orderly,  propor- 
tionate form  ;  which  form,  after  a  very  little  time,  be- 
comes classical  in  its  turn.  The  romantic  or  classical 
character  of  a  picture,  a  poem,  a  literary  work,  de- 
pends then  on  the  balance  of  certain  qualities  in  it ; 
and  in  this  sense,  a  very  real  distinction  may  be  drawn 
between  good  classical  and  good  romantic  work.  But 
all  critical  terms  are  relative ;  and  there  is  at  least  a 
valuable  suggestion  in  that  theory  of  Stendhal's,  that 
all  good  art  was  romantic  in  its  day."  1 

Romanticism  Bearing  in  mind,  therefore,  that 
in  ficuon.  «  au  critical  terms  are  relative,"  let 
us  turn  more  definitely  to  the  field  of  fiction. 
What  is  meant  by  romantic  fiction,  as  com- 
pared with  realistic  and  other  types  ?  The 
definition  of  "  romance  "  given  in  the  Cen* 
tury  Dictionary  will  be  helpful :  — 

1  Appreciations,  p.  271. 


ROMANTICISM  269 

"  A  tale  in  verse  in  one  of  the  Romance  dialects,  as 
early  French  or  Provencal.  A  popular  epic.  A  ficti- 
tious story  of  heroic,  marvelous,  or  supernatural  inci- 
dents derived  from  history  or  legend.  A  tale  or  novel 
dealing  not  so  much  [sic]  with  real  and  familiar  life  as 
with  extraordinary  and  often  extravagant  adventures 
1  Don  Quixote ') ;  with  rapid  and  violent  changes  in 
scene  and  fortunes  ('  Count  of  Monte  Cristo ')  ;  with 
mysterious  and  supernatural  events  (-  Dr.  Jekyll  and 
Mr.  Hyde ')  ;  or  with  morbid  idiosyncrasies  of  tem- 
perament ('  Caleb  Williams  ')  ;  or  picturing  imaginary 
conditions  of  society  influenced  by  imaginary  charac- 
ters (Fouque"'s  '  Undine ')." 

The  reader  will  note  that  I  have  taken  the 
liberty  of  italicising  the  words  "  not  so  much." 
We  are  concerned  with  a  question  of  relative 
emphasis.  According  to  the  relative  amount 
of  stress  which  it  lays  upon  the  extraordinary, 
the  mysterious,  the  imaginary,  does  the  ro- 
mance differ  from  the  novel.  What  is  the 
reason  for  this  difference  in  emphasis  ? 

For  answer  we  must  look  to  the 

..  ,.  ,          .  The  mood  of 

writer  ot  romance,  and  endeavor  to  the  romantic 
see  why  he  turns  away  from  the 
common  facts  of  experience.     It  is  a  question 
of  mood.     The  romantic  writer,  as  such,  is 
dissatisfied  with  the  artistic  material  furnished 
by  every-day  life.     This  is  not  saying  that, 
as  a  man,  he  is  dissatisfied  with  life  ;  that  he 


270  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

is  a  pessimist  or  a  cynic.  Poe  was  this,  and 
Hawthorne  was  not,  although  both  were 
romanticists.  It  is  simply  saying  that  when 
he  wishes  to  construct  a  story,  the  romanti- 
cist desires  to  weave  it  out  of  different  ma- 
terial from  that  which  his  every-day  experi- 
ence offers.  In  the  words  of  Don  Quixote's 
niece,  he  wants  "  better  bread  than  wheaten." 
He  seeks  not  the  violet  that  grows  in  com- 
mon fields,  but  some  mysterious  "  blue 
flower,"  which  forever  eludes  him.  He  por- 
trays, not  some  woman  whom  he  has  met  that 
morning  on  the  street,  but  a  woman  of  his 
dreams.  The  images,  the  sounds  that  haunt 
his  imagination,  are  not  those  of  wearisome, 
reiterated  reality.  And  it  should  be  needless 
to  say  that  all  this  is  perfectly  legitimate, 
that  it  is  wholly  in  keeping  with  one  mode 
of  the  artistic  temperament. 
The  romantic  1^  is  *°  this  characteristic  of  the 
atmosphwe.  romantic  writer  that  is  due  what  we 
call  the  "  atmosphere  "  of  romantic  works  of 
fiction.  No  better  description  of  it  can  be 
given  than  that  which  was  penned  by  one  of 
the  most  perfect  masters  of  it  —  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne  —  in  the  well  known  preface  to 
«  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables." 


ROMANTICISM  271 

"  When  a  writer  calls  his  work  a  Romance,  it  need 
hardly  be  observed  that  he  wishes  to  claim  a  certain 
latitude,  both  as  to  its  fashion  and  material,  which  he 
would  not  have  felt  himself  entitled  to  assume  had  he 
professed  to  be  writing  a  Novel.  The  latter  form  of 
composition  is  presumed  to  aim  at  a  very  minute  fidel- 
ity, not  merely  to  the  possible,  but  to  the  probable  and 
ordinary  course  of  man's  experience.  The  former  — 
while  as  a  work  of  art,  it  must  rigidly  subject  itself  to 
laws,  and  while  it  sins  unpardonably  so  far  as  it  may 
swerve  aside  from  the  truth  of  the  human  heart  —  has 
fairly  a  right  to  present  that  truth  under  circumstances, 
to  a  great  extent,  of  the  writer's  own  choosing  or  crea- 
tion. If  he  think  fit,  also,  he  may  so  manage  his 
atmospherical  medium  as  to  bring  out  or  mellow  the 
lights  and  deepen  and  enrich  the  shadows  of  the  pic- 
ture. He  will  be  wise,  no  doubt,  to  make  a  very  mod- 
erate use  of  the  privileges  here  stated,  and,  especially, 
to  mingle  the  Marvellous  rather  as  a  slight,  delicate, 
and  evanescent  flavor  than  as  any  portion  of  the  actual 
substance  of  the  dish  offered  to  the  public.  He  can 
hardly  be  said,  however,  to  commit  a  literary  crime 
even  if  he  disregard  this  caution. 

"  In  the  present  work,  the  author  has  proposed  to 
himself  —  but  with  what  success,  fortunately,  it  is  not 
for  him  to  judge  —  to  keep  undeviatingly  within  his  im- 
munities. The  point  of  view  in  which  this  tale  comes 
under  the  Romantic  definition  lies  in  the  attempt  to 
connect  a  bygone  time  with  the  very  present  that  is 
flitting  away  from  us.  It  is  a  legend  prolonging  it- 
self, from  an  epoch  now  gray  in  the  distance,  down 
iato  our  own  broad  daylight,  and  bringing  along  with 
it  some  of  its  legendary  mist,  which  the  reader,  accord- 


272  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

ing  to  his  pleasure,  may  either  disregard,  or  allow  it  t« 
float  almost  imperceptibly  about  the  characters  and 
events  for  the  sake  of  a  picturesque  effect." 

It  is  needless  to  say  that,  in  books  like 
"  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,"  "  The 
Scarlet  Letter,"  or  "  The  Marble  Faun,"  the 
reader  sees  the  personages  and  events  of  the 
story  through  the  warm  or  sombre  romantic 
medium,  —  the  special  atmosphere  which  the 
author  has  created  for  him.  In  the  most  suc- 
cessful stories  of  Mr.  Howells,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  atmosphere  is  precisely  that  of  Bos- 
ton or  New  York  during  the  year  or  decade 
described  in  the  story.  The  realist  has  suc- 
ceeded with  singular  skill  in  making  a  verti- 
cal sunlight  strike  upon  his  pages.  To  turn 
from  such  novels  as  these  to  the  romances  of 
Hawthorne  is  to  pass  from  the  clear,  frank 
sunlight  of  high  noon  into  the  mist  of  dawn, 
the  glow  of  the  sunset,  the  wavering  outlines 
of  moonlight.  Which  atmosphere  is  more 
attractive  depends  upon  the  temperament, 
the  momentary  mood,  the  literary  training  of 
the  individual  reader.  It  is  foolish  to  en- 
deavor to  prove  that  one  type  of  book  —  as  a 
type  —  is  better  than  the  other.  All  that  we 
are  now  concerned  to  see  is  that  there  is  a 


ROMANTICISM  273 

difference ;  that  the  presence  or  absence  of 
the  romantic  atmosphere  largely  determines 
the  nature  of  a  work  of  fiction. 

How  is  this  atmosphere  to  be  se-  Remoteness 
cured  ?  The  writer  frequently  com-  of  ttme< 
passes  it  by  the  simple  expedient  of  placing 
his  story  in  a  remote  period,  where  the  very 
distance  enhances  the  atmospheric  effect.  Mr. 
Crawford's  "  Zoroaster "  will  serve  to  illus- 
trate this  type  of  romantic  novel.  The  mere 
remoteness  in  time  from  our  own  day  and 
generation  is  sufficient  to  give  such  a  romance 
an  appeal  to  the  historic  imagination.  In- 
deed, almost  all  historical  fiction  is  in  this 
sense  of  the  word  romantic  fiction.  Now 
and  again  surprising  efforts  have  been  made, 
as  in  the  Egyptian  novels  of  George  Ebers, 
to  paint  the  personages  and  the  scenes  of  re- 
mote antiquity  with  all  the  detailed  accuracy 
of  a  chronicle  of  the  present  day.  Such 
experiments  in  applying  the  realistic  method 
to  the  depiction  of  historical  personages  and 
events  have  commonly  failed,  however,  to  im- 
part either  any  sense  of  reality  or  any  roman- 
tic charm.  It  is  surely  wiser  to  follow  the 
course  of  the  great  writers  of  historical  ro- 
mance in  avoiding  a  too  curious  consideration 


274  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

of  exact  details.  "  Quentin  Durward  "  and 
"  The  Talisman  "  are  all  wrong  archseologi- 
cally,  yet  they  are  triumphs  of  fiction-writing 
none  the  less. 

strangeness  There  is,  too,  a  romanticism  which 
oi  scene.  owes  its  atmosphere  to  strangeness 
of  place  rather  than  remoteness  of  time.  We 
know  how  the  imaginations  of  Southey  and 
Coleridge  were  affected  by  the  sound  of  the 
syllables  in  the  word  Susquehanna,  upon  the 
banks  of  which  unvisited,  romantic  stream 
they  were  desirous  of  founding  a  Utopian 
colony.  That  element  of  our  human  nature 
which  constantly  tempts  us  to  belittle  what 
is  actually  present,  and  to  idealize  and  glo- 
rify what  is  beyond  the  field  of  our  own  vi- 
sion, is  constantly  playing  into  the  hands  of 
the  romance-writer.  Mr.  Crawford's  "  Mr. 
Isaacs,"  for  instance,  seems,  to  one  reading 
the  story  in  England  or  America,  to  move  in 
a  sort  of  fairyland.  But  the  traveler  familiar 
with  the  East  is  likely  to  have  met  the  actual 
Mr.  Isaacs  in  his  jewelry  shop  in  Delhi,  and 
to  smile  at  the  mere  romance  of  place  which 
has  so  moved  the  imagination  of  the  untrav 
eled  reader. 


ROMANTICISM  275 

But  remoteness  of  time  and  place 

i  Theatmos- 

do  not  contribute  more  perfectly  to  pnere  ot 

passion. 

the  creation  of  romantic  atmosphere 
than  do  quite  modern  and  present  circum- 
stances, provided  these  are  viewed  through 
an  atmosphere  of  intense  emotion.  Let  pas- 
sion enter,  let  fury  or  pathos  or  tragedy  brood 
over  the  personages  of  a  story,  and  it  mat- 
ters little  how  sordid  and  prosaic  the  world 
in  which  the  characters  move.  We  have 
used  Mr.  Crawford's  "  Zoroaster  "  and  "  Mr. 
Isaacs  "  to  exemplify  certain  types  of  roman- 
tic atmosphere.  There  is  a  chapter  of  his 
"  Casa  Braccio "  where  he  describes  the  in- 
terior of  an  Italian  restaurant  in  a  fashion 
that  would  do  credit  to  any  realistic  writer, 
but  the  vulgar  interior  is  flooded  with  the 
intense  light  of  passion  and  crime.  The 
familiar  outlines,  the  scents  and  odors  and 
sights  of  the  place  are  filled,  as  it  were,  by 
the  mist  of  anguish  and  terror.  To  be  able 
to  accomplish  such  a  feat  as  this  is  to  prove 
one's  self  a  master  of  the  methods  of  romance. 


We   have  been  looking   at  the 

0  Romantic 

writer  of   romances    and  at  those  sentiment  in 
qualities  in  his  books  which  make 


276  A  STUDY   OF  PROSE  FICTION 

it  possible  for  them  to  convey  an  atmosphere 
of  romantic  sentiment.  This  sentiment  would 
be  ineffectual,  however,  if  it  were  not  for  the 
corresponding,  the  reciprocal,  sentiment  on 
the  part  of  the  public  itself.  The  public  is 
never  more  like  a  healthy  child  than  in  its 
thirst  for  the  exceptional  and  the  exotic.  I 
have  chosen  as  one  of  the  mottoes  for  this 
chapter  the  verdict  of  a  veteran  fisherman, 
who  declares  that  "  trout  take  some  flies  be- 
cause they  resemble  the  real  fly  on  which  they 
feed.  They  take  other  flies  for  no  such  rea- 
son. And  in  this  they  are  like  men."  In 
truth,  we  all  like,  at  certain  seasons,  the 
strange,  bright-colored  creations  of  a  novel- 
ist's fancy,  and  the  more  vividly  they  differ 
from  the  sober  colors  of  reality  the  greater 
the  pleasure  they  afford, 
m  youth  and  To  youth,  colored  as  it  is  with 
age>  romantic  hues  of  its  own  devising, 

no  fiction  seems  so  improbable  as  to  forbid 
acceptance.  Old  age,  disillusionized  by  many 
adventures,  by  many  voyages  into  far-off 
seas,  loves  to  cheat  itself  once  more  with  the 
swiftly  spun  web  of  romantic  delusion.  The 
first  motto  for  the  present  chapter  is  a  pas- 
sage from  one  of  the  letters  of  Edward  Fitz* 


ROMANTICISM  277 

Gerald  regarding  the  novels  of  Thackeray. 
It  was  written  in  December,  1875,  when  Fitz- 
Gerald  felt  himself  "  old  and  dry,"  and  in  no 
mood  for  the  fiction  that  deals  with  human 
life  in  its  prof ounder  aspects.  Yet  only  three 
years  before  he  was  writing  about  Disraeli's 
romantic  novel  "  Lothair  :  "  — 

"  Altogether  the  Book  is  like  a  pleasant  Magic  Lan» 
tern  :  when  it  is  over  I  shall  forget  it :  and  shall  want 
to  return  to  what  I  do  not  forget ;  some  of  Thackeray's 
monumental  Figures  of  '  pauvre  et  triste  Humanite*,' 
as  Old  Napoleon  called  it :  Humanity  in  its  depths, 
not  in  its  superficial  Appearances." 

There  could  scarcely  be  a  better  illustra- 
tion of  the  shifting  moods  of  a  sympathetic, 
sensitive  reader  than  that  given  by  these 
two  passages  from  FitzGerald's  letters. 

All  of   us,  in  certain  hours   of  A  literature 
weariness,  of  relaxation  from  the  olevaslon- 
daily  toil,  of   twilight   dreaming,  desire   to 
forget  the  disappointments  of  actual  experi- 
ence.    Romantic  fiction  furnishes  a  literature 
of   evasion.     It  allows   us   to    escape   from 
the  complications,  the  fret,  the  strain  of  liv- 
ing.    In  such  hours  one  is  willing  to  leave 
the  reading  of  realistic  fiction  to  the  strong, 
the  courageous  persons  who  have  no  fear  of 


278  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

the  facts  of  life ;  who  prefer  to  face  them, 
with  all  their  terrible  implications.  It  is 
enough  for  the  rest  of  us,  for  the  time  being, 
at  least,  to  wander  away  into  some  enchanted 
land  "  far  from  this  our  war." 

It  is  easy  to  understand,  there- 

The "  neo-         f  _ 

romantic        fore,  now  the  modern  "  neo-roman- 

movement."         .     .,  . 

tic  movement  has  arisen  as  a  re- 
action against  realism.  It  is  impossible  to 
analyze  exactly  these  changes  in  the  reading 
public's  temper.  They  are  as  unaccountable, 
apparently  as  whimsical,  as  the  variations  in 
any  other  human  appetite.  But  there  are 
few  sympathetic  readers  of  modern  English 
fiction  who  do  not  feel  grateful  for  the  books 
written  by  the  younger  men  who,  with  Steven- 
son as  their  gallant  leader,  came  into  promi- 
nence during  the  last  twenty  years  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  Few  or  none  of  these 
men  have  revealed  themselves  as  great  per- 
sonalities seriously  engaged  in  interpreting 
the  more  vital  aspects  of  human  experience. 
Sometimes  one  is  even  inclined  to  doubt 
whether  most  of  them  have  very  much  to 
say.  But  they  have  at  least  performed  the 
useful  service  of  giving  delight  to  their  con- 
temporaries. Many  of  them  have  been  mas- 


ROMANTICISM  279 

ters  of  the  story-telling  art ;  they  have  learned 
brevity  of  description,  brilliancy  of  narrative, 
ready  invention  of  situations  and  events. 
Their  task,  after  all,  is  far  less  difficult  than 
that  of  the  author  of  great  realistic  fiction. 
The  Spanish  novelist  Valdes  has  remarked, 
in  the  previously  quoted  preface  to  his  novel 
"  Sister  St.  Sulpice,"  — 

"  The  talent  of  dazzling  with  strange  events,  of  in- 
teresting by  means  of  complicated  intrigues  and  im- 
possible characters,  is  possessed  to-day  in  Europe  by 
several  hundreds  of  writers,  while  there  are  not  much 
more  than  a  dozen  of  those  who  can  awaken  interest 
with  the  common  acts  of  existence,  and  with  the  paint- 
ing of  characters  genuinely  human." 

But  these  "  hundreds  of  writers  "  have 
learned  at  least  to  avoid  certain  pitfalls  into 
•which  the  authors  of  realistic  fiction  have 
been  apt  to  stumble.  They  have  learned  not 
to  preach,  not  to  go  too  far  in  depicting  un- 
pleasant phases  of  life,  and  not  to  let  a  love 
of  accuracy  of  detail  persuade  them  into  the 
composition  of  pages  that  are  only  weariness 
to  the  reader.  In  the  long  history  of  the 
English  novel  there  has  been  no  period  when 
so  many  readable  books  have  been  written  as 
in  the  last  twenty-five  years.  Whether  many 


280  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

of  these  books  are  destined  to  last  beyond  the 
moment  may  naturally  be  doubted.  The  very 
variety  and  originality  which  captures  the 
public  attention  for  the  season  are  often  an 
obstacle  to  permanent  literary  fame.  To 
quote  once  more  from  the  preface  to  "  Sister 
St.  Sulpice :  "  — 

"  Extremely  original  works  produce  a  lively  impres- 
sion upon  the  public  for  the  moment,  but  are  speedily 
forgotten.  And  this  is  because  their  originality  fre- 
quently lies  in  a  deviation  from  the  truth,  and  truth  is 
not  slow  in  reasserting  its  sway,  because  it  alone  is  eter- 
nal and  beautiful.  The  public  does  not  admire  the  poet 
or  novelist  who  holds  the  reins  of  his  imagination  and 
makes  it  serve  his  purpose,  who  understands  how  to  give 
fit  preparation  to  his  work  and  writes  with  naturalness 
and  good  sense.  And  yet  as  a  general  rule  these  are 
the  ones  that  become  immortal." 

Romanticism  No  discussion  of  romantic  fic- 
and  idealism.  fion  ^  adequate  which  leaves  out 

of  view  the  relation  of  romanticism  to  ideal- 
ism. Idealism  is  necessary,  is  inevitable,  in 
every  true  work  of  art.  It  means  building 
up  a  whole  in  accordance  with  the  artist's 
idea ;  it  means  freeing  his  material  from  ac- 
cidental elements  so  that  he  may  express  its 
real  significance.  There  is  as  profound  and 
far-reaching  idealism  in  a  realistic  novel  Uke 


ROMANTICISM  281 

"  Middlemarch  "  as  there  is  in  a  romance  like 
Sienkiewicz's  "  Fire  and  Sword."  But  many 
discussions  of  realism  have  devoted  them- 
selves to  pointing  out  a  supposed  antagonism 
between  realism  and  idealism,  as  if  no  realis- 
tic novel  could  possibly  express  an  ideal.  By 
far  the  more  vital  contrast  is,  as  we  have  seen, 
between  realism  and  romanticism.  That  is  to 
say,  along  what  lines  is  the  artist  to  work  out 
his  ideal?  Is  he  to  stand  solidly  upon  the 
earth,  to  base  his  work  upon  the  actualities 
of  mortal  experience,  or  is  he  to  leave  the 
earth  behind  him  and  go  voyaging  off  into 
the  blue  ?  Tolstoi's  "  Resurrection,"  with 
its  frank  inclusion  of  many  repellent  and 
painful  aspects  of  human  experience,  is  a 
thoroughly  realistic  piece  of  fiction.  Yet  its 
main  theme  is  to  show  what  sort  of  recon- 
struction of  human  society  would  be  neces- 
sary if  the  teachings  of  the  New  Testament 
were  really  to  be  accepted  as  an  actual  rule 
of  life.  There  could  be  no  theme  more  ideal- 
istic than  this.  On  the  other  hand,  Miss 
Johnston's  "  To  Have  and  to  Hold  "  is  a 
frankly  romantic  story,  one  in  which  the  men 
are  brave  and  the  women  beautiful ;  where 
there  are  pirates  and  shipwrecks,  sword  and 


282  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

saddle,  battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death.  It 
portrays  such  a  state  of  society  as  never  ex- 
isted in  Colonial  Virginia  or  anywhere  else 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth.  It  likewise  is  a 
piece  of  pure  idealism  ;  it  "  leaves  the  ground 
to  lose  itself  in  the  sky."  But  it  is  as  truly 
romantic  in  its  entire  texture  as  Tolstoi's 
study  of  contemporary  Russia  is  realistic. 

In  the   last   analysis,  therefore, 

What  floes  .  J        .  .    ' 

the  novelist     the  question  becomes  simply  this  : 

think  oi  life  ?  .... 

What  does  the  artist  in  fiction  think 
of  life  ?  If  he  believes  it  to  be  a  good  thing, 
the  best  thing  God  has  given  us,  he  may 
wish,  and  probably  will  wish,  to  keep  his  art 
close  to  it.  Provided  he  have  ideas,  there  is 
no  danger  that  his  work  will  lack  idealism. 
But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  he  desires  "  bet- 
ter bread  than  wheaten,"  if  life  does  not  seem 
to  him  very  good,  then  he  must  surely  dream 
out  something  different.  He  must  create  an 
imaginary  world,  whether  in  Colonial  Vir- 
ginia or  elsewhere,  and  keep  his  art  close  to 
that.  He  too,  provided  he  have  ideas,  will 
not  lack  idealism.  But  whatever  he  thinks 
about  life  itself,  about  the  conditions  in  which 
plain  men  and  women  move  and  form  the 
shifting  figures  in  the  pattern  of  the  eternal 


ROMANTICISM  283 

human  comedy,  it  is  his  task  to  make  some- 
thing beautiful.  He  must  give  pleasure,  no 
matter  from  what  materials  the  texture  of  his 
craft  is  woven,  no  matter  what  method  he 
chooses  to  adopt.  Which  material  or  which 
method  gives  the  higher  pleasure,  the  more 
permanent  delight,  to  generations  of  read- 
ers, will  depend  entirely  upon  the  readers 
themselves.  It  can  never  be  settled  by  any 
theoretical  discussion  of  the  advantages  and 
disadvantages  of  realistic  or  romantic  art. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    QUESTION    OF   FORM 

"  The  form,  it  seems  to  me,  is  to  be  appreciated  after  the 
fact :  then  the  author's  choice  has  been  made,  his  standard  has 
been  indicated ;  then  we  can  follow  lines  and  directions,  and 
compare  tones  and  resemblances.  Then,  in  a  word,  we  can 
enjoy  one  of  the  most  charming  of  pleasures,  we  can  estimate 
quality,  we  can  apply  the  test  of  execution." 

HENBY  JAMES,  Partial  Portraits. 

TO  be  well  IN  one  °^  *ne  most  genial  pas- 
wrltten-  sages  of  his  "Partial  Portraits," 
Mr.  Henry  James  has  described  those  Sun- 
day afternoon  gatherings  of  a  famous  group 
of  novelists  in  Flaubert's  little  salon,  where 
the  talk  concerned  itself  mainly  with  the 
methods  of  the  art  of  fiction.  These  men 
had  long  since  passed  beyond  the  point  where 
they  interested  themselves  with  questions  of 
morals  or  conscious  purpose  ;  to  them  "  the 
only  duty  of  a  novel  was  to  be  well  written  ; 
that  merit  included  every  other  of  which  it 
was  capable." 

Mtttsr,  man.  What  does  "  well  written  "  mean  ? 
••MM*,  jt  js  a  question  of  form,  of  adapt- 


THE  QUESTION  OF  FORM  285 

ing  means  to  ends.  In  the  earlier  chapters 
of  this  book  we  have  been  considering  the 
material  used  by  the  novelist  in  its  rela- 
tions to  the  material  used  by  cognate  arts, 
as  well  as  with  a  view  to  its  adaptability 
for  the  structural  purposes  of  the  fictionist. 
We  have  seen  how  the  elements  of  character, 
plot,  and  setting  lend  themselves  to  the  mould- 
ing imagination  of  the  fiction-writer.  We 
then  studied  the  fiction-writer  himself,  en- 
deavoring to  estimate  the  influence  of  his 
personality  upon  his  conscious  or  unconscious 
selection  of  material.  In  the  chapters  devoted 
to  realism  and  romanticism  we  saw  that  these 
tendencies  —  these  general  fashions  of  envis- 
aging one's  material  —  are  to  be  traced  back 
to  the  writer's  attitude  towards  life,  as  well 
as  to  the  influence  of  the  literary  fashions 
prevailing  in  different  periods  of  a  national 
literature.  We  have  now  to  observe  the  final 
step  in  the  production  of  a  work  of  fiction, 
that  is  to  say,  the  writer's,  choice  of  form, 
his  mastery  of  language,  —  in  short,  his  skill 
in  execution.  The  matter,  the  man,  and  the 
manner ;  that,  for  better  or  worse,  has  been 
the  order  we  have  followed. 


286  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

TheproYince  IQ  analyzing  a  writer's  manner, 
oi  rhetoric.  ^^  -^  yg  personai  adaptation  of 

the  literary  means  at  his  disposal  to  the  end 
he  has  in  view,  we  enter  upon  the  territory 
of  rhetoric.  It  is  the  students  of  rhetoric, 
of  style,  who  have  made  the  clearest  exposi- 
tion of  those  various  kinds  of  composition 
which  are  to  be  observed  in  prose  fiction. 
They  have  furnished  special  treatises  upon 
"  The  Literature  of  Feeling,"  l  upon  narra- 
tion 2  and  description,3  and  they  have  illus- 
trated every  variety  of  technical  method  from 
the  practice  of  the  modern  fiction-writer. 
They  have  balanced  the  stylistic  advantages 
and  difficulties  of  such  varying  fictional 
forms  as  the  romance  and  the  novel,  the 
allegory  and  the  short  story.  It  is  not  the 
purpose  of  the  present  chapter  to  take  up 
such  questions  in  detail.  All  that  I  shall 
endeavor  to  do  is  to  point  out  to  the  serious 
reader  of  fiction  some  of  the  paths  which  he 
may  follow,  if  he  will,  and  then,  in  the  suc- 
ceeding chapter,  to  select  one  typical  form  of 

1  J.  H.  Gardiner,  The  Forms  of  Prose  Literature.     New 
York  :  Scribners. 

8  W.  T.  Brewster,  Prose  Narration.     New  York  :  Holt. 
•  C.  S.  Baldwin,  Prose  Description.     New  York  :  Holt. 


THE  QUESTION  OF  FORM  287 

fiction,  the   short   story,  for  more   detailed 
treatment. 

For  it  is  only  the  reader  who 

.  .  The  student 

takes   his   fiction  rather  seriously  ana  the 

•     1-1     i  •  \  •         if   •      public. 

who  is  likely  to  interest  himself  in 
questions  of  form.  The  great  public  con- 
cerns itself  chiefly  with  the  "  stuff "  of  a 
novel ;  it  simply  asks  :  Does  this  new  book 
impart  any  thrills  of  emotion  ?  Is  it  inter- 
esting ?  Does  it  have  a  good  "  story "  ? 
Does  it  give  a  glimpse  of  people  and  places 
worth  knowing  :  Lincoln,  Napoleon,  Richard 
the  Lion  Heart;  California,  India,  London, 
Paris  ?  Whether  the  book  is  "  well  written,'* 
in  the  technical  sense,  is  a  question  concern- 
ing which  the  general  public  is  quite  indif- 
ferent. And  it  is  a  wholesome  thing  for  the 
student  of  style  in  fiction  to  place  himself, 
now  and  again,  frankly  on  the  territory  occu- 
pied by  the  great  public  ;  to  remember  that 
the  "  stuff "  in  itself  has  aBsthetic  values 
that  are  never  to  be  neglected  or  underrated, 
that  there  are  sound  human  reasons  for  that 
preference  of  the  untrained  public  for  the 
"  picture  that  tells  a  story  "  over  the  picture 
that  is  simply  well  painted.  I  have  known 
novelists  to  hesitate  and  agonize  over  the 


288  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

question  of  writing  a  certain  story  in  the 
first  person  or  the  third  person  ;  drafting  it 
now  under  one  form,  now  under  another ; 
rejoicing  over  the  technical  opportunities  of 
the  autobiographical  method,  and  mourning 
over  its  necessary  limitations ;  liking  the 
objective,  impartial  "  third  person  "  point  of 
view,  yet  finding  it  perhaps  too  cold  and 
colorless  for  that  particular  story.  This  is 
a  good  example  of  those  questions  of  pure 
form  in  which  students  of  fiction  and  some 
writers  of  fiction  take  a  natural  interest,  but 
towards  which  the  public  remains  blandly  in- 
different. If  "  Esmond  "  is  a  "  good  story," 
thinks  the  public,  what  earthly  difference 
does  it  make  whether  it  is  written  in  the 
first  person  or  the  third  person,  or  now  in 
one  and  now  in  the  other  ?  The  present 
chapter,  however,  is  written  for  the  compara- 
tively few  people  who  believe  that  the  choice 
of  form  is  significant,  as  bearing  upon  the 
total  impression  made  by  the  story. 

But  it  should  be  remembered, 

variety  oi        in  the  first  place,  that  the  forms  of 

prose  fiction  are  extremely  flexible. 

It  is  impossible,  as  we  have  seen,  to  apply  to 

them  the  comparatively  rigid  rules  that  are 


THE  QUESTION  OF  FORM  289 

exemplified  in  the  epic,  the  lyric,  the  drama. 
And  even  after  a  general  choice  of  fictional 
form  has  been  made —  let  us  say,  for  in- 
stance, in  favor  of  the  short  story  rather 
than  the  novel  as  the  better  artistic  medium 
for  the  conveyance  of  a  certain  idea,  a  certain 
impression  of  life  —  there  are  infinite  pos- 
sible modifications  of  form,  due  to  the  vary- 
ing personal  power  of  expression  possessed  by 
different  writers.  Turgenieff  and  Mr.  Kip- 
ling, let  us  say,  will  both  exercise  an  unerring 
instinct  in  determining  that  a  given  theme 
can  be  better  presented  in  a  dozen  pages  than 
in  a  hundred.  But  there  the  similarity  of 
choice  ends.  The  two  men  have  different 
eyes,  minds,  hands.  The  brush-work  is  not 
the  same ;  no  trained  reader  can  possibly  mis- 
take a  page  of  Turgenieff  for  a  page  of 
Kipling.  The  selection  of  words,  the  order- 
ing of  sentences,  the  arrangement  of  events, 
reveal  the  style  of  the  individual  workman. 
The  contrast  between  two  works  in  different 
genres — for  instance  Trollope's  "Barchester 
Towers"  and  one  of  Hardy's  "  Wessex  Tales  " 
—  involves  not  only  all  those  differences  in 
material  and  in  personality  which  we  have 
already  discussed,  but  countless  subtleties  of 


290  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

style,  of  manner.  Such  a  comparative  study 
implies,  on  the  one  hand,  a  knowledge  of 
the  technique  of  prose  fiction  considered  as 
an  abstract  medium  of  expression,  and  on 
the  other,  the  closest  scrutiny  of  the  com- 
mand of  language,  the  individual  power  over 
words,  possessed  by  these  two  writers. 

How  is  the  student  of  fiction  to 
ot style:  train  himself  in  such  analysis?  I 
know  of  no  better  method  than 
that  followed  in  such  excellent  handbooks  as 
Minto's  "  Manual  of  English  Prose  Liter- 
ature "  l  or  Clark's  "  English  Prose  Writers."  2 
In  Professor  Minto's  book,  for  example,  there 
are  careful  studies  of  representative  British 
authors,  who  are  minutely  examined  under 
such  headings  as  Life,  Character,  and  Opin- 
ions, in  order  to  insure,  first  of  all,  an  intelli- 
gent knowledge  of  the  man  behind  the  book. 
Then  the  Elements  of  Style  are  considered  : 
the  Vocabulary,  its  constituents  and  charac- 
teristics, the  Sentences  and  Paragraphs ;  then 
the  Qualities  of  Style,  such  as  Simplicity, 

1  William  Minto,  A  Manual  of  English  Prose  Literature. 
New  York  and  Boston  :  Ginn. 

8  J.  Scott  Clark,  A  Study  of  English  Prose  Writers:  A 
Laboratory  Method.  New  York  :  Scribnera. 


THE  QUESTION  OF  FORM  291 

Clearness,  Strength,  Pathos,  the  Ludicrous, 
Melody,  Harmony,  Taste.  His  Figures  of 
Speech  are  then  analyzed  and  classified,  and 
finally,  taking  a  broader  outlook,  there  is  an 
estimate  of  the  author's  accomplishment  in 
the  varying  kinds  of  composition,  such  as 
Description,  Narration,  Exposition,  und  Per- 
suasion. 

Professor    Clark's     method    of 

,      .  ,       .        .      .,          .  .          Clark's 

analytic  study  is  similar  in  aim,  laboratory 
although  it  differs  in  details.  In 
his  own  words,  "  the  method  consists  in  de- 
termining the  particular  and  distinctive  fea- 
tures of  a  writer's  style  (using  the  term  "style" 
in  its  wide  sense),  in  sustaining  that  analysis 
by  a  very  wide  consensus  of  critical  opinion, 
in  illustrating  the  particular  characteristics  of 
each  writer  by  voluminous  and  carefully  se- 
lected extracts  from  his  works,  and  in  then 
requiring  the  pupil  to  find  in  the  works  of 
the  writer  parallel  illustrations."  In  the  sec- 
tion devoted  to  Dickens,  for  example,  there 
is  first  a  brief  Biographical  Outline,  followed 
by  a  Bibliography  on  Dickens's  style.  Then 
follows  a  list  of  Particular  Characteristics  as 
pointed  out  by  competent  critics,  each  char- 
acteristic being  also  illustrated  by  extracts 


292  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

from  the  novels.  They  are  grouped  under 
eleven  heads  :  1.  Fondness  for  Caricature  — 
Exaggeration  —  Grotesqueness.  2.  Genial 
Humor.  3.  Incarnation  of  Characteristics  — 
Single  Strokes.  4.  Descriptive  Power  —  Mi- 
nuteness of  Observation  —  Vividness.  5. 
Tender,  sometimes  Mawkish,  Pathos.  6. 
Gayety  —  Animal  Spirits — Good-Fellowship. 
7.  Sincerity  —  Manliness  —  Earnestness.  8. 
Broad  Sympathy  —  Plain,  Practical  Human- 
ity. 9.  Dramatic  Power.  10.  Vulgarity  — 
Artificiality.  11.  Diffuseness. 

Does  all  this  sound  rather  school- 

The  value  of  .  _  , 

such  disci-      masterish  ?    It  is  schoolmasterish  if 

pline. 

done  pedantically,  with  over-literal- 
ness,  and  considered  as  an  end  in  itself.  But 
it  is  only  by  some  such  exact  discipline  in  the 
appreciation  of  a  literary  product  that  "we  can 
enjoy  one  of  the  most  charming  of  pleasures, 
we  can  estimate  quality,  we  can  apply  the  test 
of  execution."  Let  the  reader  take  a  single 
book  of  any  of  the  masters  of  fiction,  and 
devote  a  few  days  or  weeks  to  writing  out, 
with  the  most  scrupulous  care,  such  critical 
notes  upon  it  as  Minto  and  Clark  have  sug- 
gested. He  will  not  only  never  regret  the 
labor,  but  unless  he  is  a  born  pedant,  he  will 


THE  QUESTION  OF  FORM  293 

read  fiction  thereafter  with  new  eyes  and  a 
new  delight.  If  he  be  a  born  pedant,  unwill- 
ing to  look  beyond  his  own  critical  categories, 
unable  to  see  the  wood  for  the  trees,  then  his 
soul  has  gone  blind  already,  and  a  little  more 
rhetorical  analysis  will  not  do  it  any  harm. 

The  standpoint  of  the  present  The  writer's 
chapter,  it  will  be  observed,  has  »olnt  °* vlew- 
hitherto  been  that  of  the  reader  of  fiction. 
It  is  based  upon  the  belief  that  the  pleasure 
to  be  derived  from  novel  reading  is  enhanced 
in  proportion  to  one's  intelligent  perception 
of  the  nature  of  the  writer's  problems  and  of 
the  skill  with  which  he  has  overcome  them. 
Let  us  now  shift  our  point  of  view,  and  en- 
deavor to  place  ourselves  in  the  position  of 
the  writer  of  fiction.  Does  his  understanding 
of  the  theory  and  technique  of  his  art  con- 
tribute to  his  practical  mastery  of  it?  Un- 
derstanding is  not  mastery,  of  course ;  yet 
for  all  except  the  geniuses  —  who  may  be 
trusted  to  find  their  road  across  country  —  it 
is  the  straightest  path  to  mastery.  It  was  to 
some  purpose  that  George  Eliot  had  perfected 
her  theory  of  fiction  at  thirty-five,  before  she 
had  written  a  line  of  fiction  herself.  If  the 


294  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

"  young  writer  "  has  objectively  studied  the 
laws  of  fiction,  as  they  have  been  commented 
upon  by  such  skilled  workmen  as  Mr.  Henry 
James,  Stevenson,  Bourget,  and  many  more, 
it  is  his  own  fault  if  he  has  not  gained  a  clearer 
knowledge  of  what  he  is  doing,  as  well  as 
some  measure  of  inspiration  for  his  task. 

How  far  is  technical  excellence  in 
ing  is  neces-    the  composition  of  fiction  a  matter 

sary?  „         .    .        0      _    .  , 

oi  training  ?  It  is  surely  a  miscon- 
ception that  no  training  at  all  is  required,  that 
if  "  you  have  it  in  you,"  all  that  is  necessary 
is  to  take  pen  and  paper  and  begin.  One  is 
about  as  likely  to  turn  out  a  great  work  of  fic- 
tion by  following  that  programme  as  he  would 
be  to  paint  a  great  picture  the  first  time  he 
handled  the  brush.  Yet  it  is  certainly  easier 
to  write  a  tolerable  novel  the  "  first  time  try- 
ing "  than  to  paint  a  tolerable  picture.  The 
reason  is,  obviously,  that  the  artistic  medium 
of  fiction,  namely,  language,  is  a  tool  with 
which  all  of  us  are  somewhat  familiar.  And 
if,  besides  possessing  resources  of  language 
one  has  already  trained  himself,  consciousl} 
or  unconsciously,  in  the  observation  of  va- 
ried types  of  character,  in  vivid  narration  and 
description,  in  the  dramatic,  the  imaginative 


THE  QUESTION  OF  FORM  296 

way  of  confronting  human  life,  he  may  with- 
out suspecting  it  be  already  a  matured  novel- 
ist in  everything  except  the  actual  writing  of 
the  story.  How  many  letter- writers  still  pos- 
sess these  gifts  in  perfection !  From  this 
point  of  view,  such  famous  "  first  books  "  as 
Scott's  "  Waverley,"  written  at  forty-three, 
Richardson's  "  Pamela,"  written  at  fifty-one, 
and  George  Eliot's  "  Scenes  from  Clerical 
Life,"  written  at  thirty-five,  are  not  such  per- 
tinent examples  of  "  the  first  time  trying  "  as 
of  the  long  general  preparation  for  an  unfore- 
seen, specific  task. 

It  should  be  noted,  furthermore, 
that  technical  excellence  in  compo-  hand  ana 
sition  is  often  gained  more  quickly 
than  the  intellectual  processes  which  are  also 
involved  in  the  production  of  notable  fiction. 
The  early  work  of  Thackeray,  Hawthorne, 
Stevenson,  and  Mr.  Kipling  is  an  illustra- 
tion of  the  hand  maturing  before  the  mind. 
Hawthorne  and  Stevenson,  in  particular,  wrote 
admirable  English  before  they  really  had  any- 
thing to  say.     The   ultimate  question  con- 
cerning a  novelist  is,  of  course,  a  two-fold 
one  :    What  does  he  have  to  say  ?  and  how 
does  he  say  it  ?     In  the  case  of  many  novel- 


296  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

ists  who  have  achieved  great  things,  the  sec- 
ond part  of  the  question  can  be  answered 
favorably  long  before  one  can  reply  with 
any  confidence  to  the  first.  There  is  a 
charming  story  of  the  youthful  Tennyson 
brothers,  Charles  and  Alfred,  to  the  effect 
that  they  stayed  at  home  from  church  one 
Sunday,  and  Charles,  the  elder,  assigned  to 
Alfred  the  roses  in  the  rectory  garden  as  a 
subject  for  a  poem.  Alfred,  who  was  not 
many  years  out  of  the  cradle,  obediently  filled 
his  slate  with  verses.  Whereupon  his  elder 
brother  remarked  with  grave  finality,  "Al- 
fred, you  can  write  !  "  That  verdict  can  be 
rendered  upon  many  men  up  and  down  the 
world  to-day,  who  seem,  nevertheless,  to  find 
nothing  worth  writing  about.  But  in  the 
mean  time  it  is  something,  at  least,  to  be  a 
master  of  the  instrument. 

This  may  throw  some  liffht  upon 

Can  the  art  of  . J  IIP 

notion  be        the  question  first  brought   before 

fni]p)it? 

the  public  by  Sir  Walter  Besant's 
lecture  upon  "  The  Art  of  Fiction,"  namely, 
whether  that  art  can  be  taught.  If  by  this 
question  one  means  the  technical  handling  of 
narration  and  description  as  media  of  expres- 
sion, it  should  be  answered  in  the  affirmative. 


THE  QUESTION   OF  FORM  297 

In  that  sense  fiction-writing  can  be  taught, 
precisely  as  versification  or  essay  and  oration 
writing  are  taught.  Thousands  of  young 
people  are  practicing  it  every  day  in  this  coun- 
try, under  the  eye  of  competent  instructors 
in  rhetoric.  How  far  the  pupil  may  go  will 
naturally  depend  more  upon  the  pupil  him- 
self than  upon  the  mere  method  of  instruc- 
tion. In  the  class  in  "  description  "  there 
will  be  now  and  then  a  young  Daudet,  or  a 
Sentimental  Tommy  with  a  preternatural  in- 
stinct for  the  mot  juste  ;  and  in  the  class  in 
"  narration  "  some  Charles  Reade  or  Clark 
Russell  will  exhibit  an  astounding  facility  in 
spinning  a  yarn.  But  as  a  rule  this  delib- 
erate effort  to  apprentice  one's  self  to  the 
novel-writing  trade  gives  the  "  young  writer  " 
very  much  what  the  "young  reader"  may 
also  gain  from  it,  that  is,  merely  a  quickened 
perception  of  the  nature  of  the  novelist's 
craft. 

I  venture  to  add  without  com-  Besant.B 
ment  Sir  Walter  Besant's  "Rules 


for  Novel-  Writers,"  as  an  interest-  Wrlters-" 
ing  contribution  from  a  writer  who  has  won 
honorable  recognition  for  his  work  :  1.  Prac- 
tice writing  something  original  every  day.    2, 


298  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

Cultivate  the  habit  of  observation.  3.  Work 
regularly  at  certain  hours.  4.  Read  no  rub- 
bish. 5.  Aim  at  the  formation  of  style.  6. 
Endeavor  to  be  dramatic.  7.  A  great  element 
of  dramatic  skill  is  selection.  8.  Avoid  the 
sin  of  writing  about  a  character.  9.  Never 
attempt  to  describe  any  kind  of  life  except 
that  with  which  you  are  familiar.  10.  Learn 
as  much  as  you  can  about  men  and  women. 
11.  For  the  sake  of  forming  a  good  natural 
style,  and  acquiring  command  of  language, 
write  poetry. 

Fewer  books,  But  it  may  honestly  be  doubted  if 
ana  better.  these  rules,  or  any  rules  or  course 
of  discipline,  will  turn  a  naturally  poor  work- 
man into  a  good  one.  If  some  one  could 
devise  a  set  of  rules  that  would  discourage 
mediocrity  from  rushing  into  print,  and  reduce 
the  ranks  of  fiction-writers  instead  of  swell- 
ing them,  he  would  deserve  well  of  his  gen- 
eration. What  we  need,  surely,  is  not  more 
novels,  but  higher  tests  of  excellence.  The 
training  suggested  in  this  chapter  is  primarily 
that  which  helps  the  reader  to  discern  the 
good  from  the  bad,  the  genuine  product  of 
thought  and  passion  from  the  shoddy  senti- 
mentality, the  empty  sound  and  fury  of  the 


THE  QUESTION  OF  FORM  299 

fiction  that  perishes  in  a  day.  That  instinct 
for  form  which  gives  the  final  perfection  to 
a  novel  cannot  be  imparted  by  the  study  of 
form ;  it  is  born  and  not  made ;  it  comes  from 
some  glimpse  of  enduring  beauty  as  revealed 
to  the  true  artist  soul. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    SHORT    STORY 

"For  here,  at  least  [in  the  short  story],  we  have  the  condi- 
tions of  perfect  art ;  there  is  no  subdivision  of  interest ;  the 
author  can  strike  directly  in,  without  preface,  can  move  with 
determined  step  toward  a  conclusion,  and  can  —  O  highest  privi- 
lege !  —  stop  when  he  is  done." 

THOMAS  WENTWOKTH  HIQGINSON. 

A  tint  from         THE  initial  difficulty  in  discussing 

Thackeray.       ^    ^ort   Btory  fa  fa^  ^fr  danger 

of  taking  one's  subject  either  too  seriously  or 
else  not  seriously  enough.  If  one  could  but 
hit  upon  the  proper  key  at  the  outset,  one 
might  possibly  hope  to  edify  the  strenuous 
reader,  and  at  the  same  time  to  propitiate  the 
frivolous.  Let  us  make  certain  of  our  key, 
therefore,  by  promptly  borrowing  one !  And 
we  will  take  our  hint  as  to  the  real  nature  of 
the  short  story  from  that  indisputable  master 
of  the  long  story,  Thackeray.  In  his  "Round- 
about Paper"  "  On  a  Lazy  Idle  Boy"  there  is  a 
picture,  all  in  six  lines,  of  "  a  score  of  white- 
bearded,  white-robed  warriors,  or  grave  sen- 


THE  SHORT  STORY  301 

iors  of  the  city,  seated  at  the  gate  of  Jaffa  ' 
or  Beyrout,  and  listening  to  the  story-teller 
reciting  his  marvels  out  of  The  Arabian 
Nights."  That  picture,  symbol  as  it  was  to 
Thackeray  of  the  story-teller's  role,  may  well 
hover  in  the  background  of  one's  memory  as 
he  discourses  of  the  short  story  as  a  form  of 
literary  art. 

Is  it  a  distinct  form,  with  laws  isitadis- 
and  potencies  that  differentiate  it  tinctlonn? 
sharply  from  other  types  of  literature  ?  This 
question  is  a  sort  of  turnstile,  through  which 
one  must  wriggle,  or  over  which  one  must 
boldly  leap,  in  order  to  reach  our  field  of  in- 
vestigation. Some  of  my  readers  are  familiar 
with  a  magazine  article,  written  many  years 
ago  by  Mr.  Brander  Matthews,  entitled  "  The 
Philosophy  of  the  Short-Story,"  and  recently 
revised  and  issued  as  a  little  volume.1  It  will 
be  observed  that  Professor  Matthews  spells 
"  short-story  "  with  a  hyphen,  and  claims  that 
the  short-story,  hyphenated,  is  something  very 
different  from  a  story  that  merely  happens 
to  be  short.  It  is,  he  believes,  a  distinct 

1  The  Philosophy  of  the  Short-Story.  By  Brander  Mat- 
thews, D.  C.  L.  New  York  :  Longmans,  Green  and  Com- 
pany, 1901. 


302  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE   FICTION 

species ;  an  art  form  by  itself ;  a  new  liter* 
ary  genre,  in  short,  characterized  by  com- 
pression, originality,  ingenuity,  a  touch  of 
fantasy,  and  by  the  fact  that  no  love  interest 
is  needed  to  hold  its  parts  together.  Mr. 
Matthews  gives  pertinent  illustrations  of 
these  characteristics,  and  comments  in  an  in- 
teresting fashion  upon  recent  British  and 
American  examples  of  the  short-story.  But 
one  is  tempted  to  ask  if  the  white-bearded, 
white-robed  warriors  at  the  gate  of  Jaffa  were 
not  listening,  centuries  and  centuries  ago,  to 
tales  marked  by  compression,  originality,  in- 
genuity, a  touch  of  fantasy,  and  all  the  other 
"  notes  "  of  this  new  type  of  literature. 

The  critical  trail  blazed  so  plainly 
by  the  professor  of  dramatic  litera- 
ture at  Columbia  has  been  followed  by  sev- 
eral authors  of  recent  volumes  devoted  to 
the  modern  art  of  short  story  writing.1  But 
story-telling,  surely,  is  as  old  as  the  day  when 
men  first  gathered  round  a  camp-fire  or  wo- 
men huddled  in  a  cave  !  The  study  of  com- 
parative folk-lore  is  teaching  us  every  day 
how  universal  is  the  instinct  for  it.  Even 
were  we  to  leave  out  of  view  the  literature  of 

1  See  the  Bibliography  for  the  present  chapter. 


THE  SHORT  STORY  303 

oral  tradition,  and  take  the  earlier  written 
literature  of  any  European  people,  —  for  in- 
stance, the  tales  told  by  Chaucer  and  some 
of  his  Italian  models,  —  we  should  find  these 
modern  characteristics  of  originality,  ingenu- 
ity, and  the  rest  in  almost  unrivaled  perfec- 
tion, and  perhaps  come  to  the  conclusion 
of  Chaucer  himself,  as  he  exclaims  in  whim- 
sical despair,  "  There  is  no  new  thing  that 
is  not  old ! "  And  yet  if  the  question  be 
put  point-blank,  "  Do  not  such  short  story 
writers  as  Stevenson,  Mr.  Kipling,  Miss 
Jewett,  Bret  Harte,  Daudet  —  not  to  men- 
tion Poe  and  Hawthorne  —  stand  for  a  new 
movement,  a  distinct  type  of  literature  ? " 
one  is  bound  to  answer  "  Yes."  Here  is 
work  that  contrasts  very  strongly,  not  only 
with  the  Italian  novella,  and  other  medieval 
types,  but  even  with  the  English  and  Ameri- 
can tales  of  two  generations  ago.  Where 
lies  the  difference  ?  For  Professor  Matthews 
is  surely  right  in  holding  that  there  is  a  dif- 
ference. It  is  safer  to  trace  it,  however,  not 
in  the  external  characteristics  of  this  modern 
work,  every  feature  of  which  can  easily  be 
paralleled  in  prehistoric  myths,  but  rather 
in  the  attitude  of  the  contemporary  short 


304  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

story  writer  toward  his  material,  and  in  his 
conscious  effort  to  achieve  under  certain  con 
ditions  a  certain    effect.     And  no  one   has 
defined  this  conscious   attitude  and  aim  so 
clearly  as  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

In  that  perpetually  quoted  essay 

upon  Hawthorne's  "  Tales,"  written 

in  1842  —  one  of  the  earliest  and  to  this  day 

one  of  the  best  criticisms  of  Hawthorne  — 

Poe  remarks :  — 

"  Were  I  bidden  to  say  how  the  highest  genius  could 
be  most  advantageously  employed  for  the  best  display 
of  its  own  powers,  I  should  answer,  without  hesitation 
—  in  the  composition  of  a  rhymed  poem,  not  to  exceed 
in  length  what  might  be  perused  in  an  hour.  Within 
this  limit  alone  can  the  highest  order  of  true  poetry 
exist.  I  need  only  here  say,  upon  this  topic,  that  in 
almost  all  classes  of  composition,  the  unity  of  effect  or 
impression  is  a  point  of  the  greatest  importance.  It  is 
clear,  moreover,  that  this  unity  cannot  be  thoroughly 
preserved  in  productions  whose  perusal  cannot  be  com- 
pleted at  one  sitting.  We  may  continue  the  reading 
of  a  prose  composition,  from  the  very  nature  of  prose 
itself,  much  longer  than  we  can  persevere,  to  any  good 
purpose,  in  the  perusal  of  a  poem.  This  latter,  if  truly 
fulfilling  the  demands  of  the  poetic  sentiment,  induces 
an  exaltation  of  the  soul  which  cannot  be  long  sus- 
tained. All  high  excitements  are  necessarily  transient. 
Thus  a  long  poem  is  a  paradox.  And  without  unity 
of  impression  the  deepest  effects  cannot  be  brought 
about.  .  .  . 


THE  SHORT  STORY  305 

"Were  I  called  upon,  however,  to  designate  that 
class  of  composition  which,  next  to  such  a  poem  as  I 
have  suggested,  should  best  fulfill  the  demands  of  high 
genius  —  should  offer  it  the  most  advantageous  field  of 
exertion  —  I  should  unhesitatingly  speak  of  the  prose 
tale,  as  Mr.  Hawthorne  has  here  exemplified  it.  I 
allude  to  the  short  prose  narrative,  requiring  from  a 
half  hour  to  one  or  two  hours  in  its  perusal.  The  or- 
dinary novel  is  objectionable,  from  its  length,  for  rea- 
sons already  stated  in  substance.  As  it  cannot  be  read 
at  one  sitting,  it  deprives  itself,  of  course,  of  the  im- 
mense force  derivable  from  totality.  Worldly  interests 
intervening  during  the  pauses  of  perusal,  modify,  annul, 
or  counteract,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  the  impres- 
sions of  the  book.  But  simple  cessation  in  reading 
would,  of  itself,  be  sufficient  to  destroy  the  true  unity. 
In  the  brief  tale,  however,  the  author  is  enabled  to 
carry  out  the  fullness  of  his  intention,  be  it  what  it 
may.  During  the  hour  of  perusal  the  soul  of  the  reader 
is  at  the  writer's  control.  There  are  no  external  or 
extrinsic  influences  —  resulting  from  weariness  or  in- 
terruption. 

"  A  skillful  literary  artist  has  constructed  a  tale.  If 
wise,  he  has  not  fashioned  his  thoughts  to  accommodate 
his  incidents  ;  but  having  conceived,  with  deliberate 
care,  a  certain  unique  or  single  effect  to  be  wrought 
out,  he  then  invents  such  incidents,  —  he  then  combines 
such  events  as  may  best  aid  him  in  establishing  this 
preconceived  effect.  If  his  very  initial  sentence  tend 
not  to  the  outbringing  of  this  effect,  then  he  has  failed 
in  his  first  step.  In  the  whole  composition  there  should 
be  no  word  written,  of  which  the  tendency,  direct  or 
indirect,  is  not  to  the  one  pree'stablished  design.  And 


306  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

by  such  means,  with  such  care  and  skill,  a  picture  is  at 
length  painted  which  leaves  in  the  mind  of  him  who 
contemplates  it  with  a  kindred  art,  a  sense  of  the  full- 
est satisfaction.  The  idea  of  the  tale  has  been  pre- 
sented unblemished,  because  undisturbed  ;  and  this  is 
an  end  unattainable  by  the  novel." 

The  starting  -^  we  assent  to  Poe's  reasoning, 
point.  we  are  aj.  once  UpOn  firm  ground. 

The  short  story  in  prose  literature  corre- 
sponds, then,  to  the  lyric  in  poetry  ;  like  the 
lyric,  its  unity  of  effect  turns  largely  upon  its 
brevity ;  and  as  there  are  well  known  laws  of 
lyric  structure  which  the  lyric  poet  violates 
at  his  peril  or  obeys  to  his  triumph,  so  the 
short  story  must  observe  certain  conditions 
and  may  enjoy  certain  freedoms  that  are  pe- 
culiar to  itself.  Doubtless  our  professional 
story-tellers  seated  before  the  gate  of  Jaffa 
or  Beyrout  had  ages  ago  a  naive,  instinctive 
apprehension  of  these  principles  of  their  art ; 
but  it  is  equally  true  that  the  story-writers 
of  our  own  day,  profiting  by  the  accumulated 
experience  of  the  race,  responding  quickly  to 
international  literary  influences,  prompt  to 
learn  from  and  to  imitate  one  another,  are 
consciously,  and  no  doubt  self-consciously, 
studying  their  art  as  it  has  never  been  studied 


THE  SHORT  STORY  307 

before.  Every  magazine  brings  new  experi- 
ments in  method,  or  new  variations  of  the 
old  themes ;  and  it  would  speak  ill  for  the  in- 
telligence of  these  workmen  if  there  could  be 
no  registration  of  results.  Some  such  regis- 
tration may,  at  any  rate,  be  attempted  without 
being  unduly  dogmatic,  and  without  making 
one's  pleasure  in  a  short  story  too  solemn  and 
heart-searching  an  affair. 

Every  work  of   fiction,  loner  or 

,  j  i       f          ..         /  -,    Characters, 

short,  depends  tor   its  charm  and  plot,  and 

,  1        J  setting. 

power  —  as  we  have  already  seen 
—  upon  one  or  all  of  three  elements  :  the 
characters,  the  plot,  and  the  setting.  Here 
are  certain  persons,  doing  certain  things,  in 
certain  circumstances  ;  and  the  fiction- writer 
tells  us  about  one  or  another  or  all  three  of 
these  phases  of  his  theme.  Sometimes  he 
creates  vivid  characters,  but  does  not  know 
what  to  do  with  them  ;  sometimes  he  invents 
very  intricate  and  thrilling  plots,  but  the  men 
and  women  remain  nonentities ;  sometimes 
he  lavishes  his  skill  on  the  background,  the 
milieu,  the  manners  and  morals  of  the  age, 
the  all-enveloping  natural  forces  or  historic 
movements,  while  his  heroes  and  heroines  are 


308  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

hurriedly  pushed  here  and  there  into  place, 
like  dolls  at  a  dolls'  tea-party.  But  the  mas- 
ters of  fiction,  one  need  hardly  say,  know 
how  to  beget  men  and  women,  and  to  make 
them  march  toward  events,  with  the  earth 
beneath  their  feet  and  overhead  the  sky. 
character-  Suppose  we  turn  to  the  first  of 
drawing.  these  three  potential  elements  of 
interest  and  ask  what  are  the  requirements 
of  the  short  story  as  regards  the  delineation 
of  character.  Looking  at  the  characters 
alone,  and  not,  for  the  moment,  at  the  plot 
or  the  setting,  is  there  any  difference  between 
the  short  story  and  the  novel  ?  There  is  this 
very  obvious  difference  :  if  it  is  a  character- 
story  at  all,  the  characters  must  be  unique, 
original  enough  to  catch  the  eye  at  once. 
Everybody  knows  that  in  a  novel  a  common- 
place person  may  be  made  interesting  by  a 
deliberate,  patient  exposition  of  his  various 
traits,  precisely  as  we  can  learn  to  like  very 
uninteresting  persons  in  real  life  if  circum- 
stances place  them  day  after  day  at  our  el- 
bows. Who  of  us  would  not  grow  impatient 
with  the  early  chapters  of  "  The  Newcomes," 
for  instance,  or  "  The  Antiquary,"  if  it  were 
not  for  our  faith  that  Thackeray  and  Scott 


THE  SHORT  STORY  309 

know  their  business,  and  that  every  one  of 
those  commonplace  people  will  contribute 
something  in  the  end  to  the  total  effect  ? 
And  even  where  the  gradual  development  of 
character,  rather  than  the  mere  portrayal  of 
character,  is  the  theme  of  a  novelist,  as  so 
frequently  with  George  Eliot,  how  colorless 
may  be  the  personality  at  the  outset,  how 
narrow  the  range  of  thought  and  experience 
portrayed !  Yet,  in  George  Eliot's  own 
words,  "  these  commonplace  people  have  a 
conscience,  and  have  felt  the  sublime  prompt- 
ing to  do  the  painful  right."  They  take  on 
dignity  from  their  moral  struggle,  whether 
the  struggle  ends  in  victory  or  defeat.  By 
an  infinite  number  of  subtle  touches  they  are 
made  to  grow  and  change  before  our  eyes, 
like  living,  fascinating  things. 

But  all   this   takes   time, — far  swutdevei- 
more  time  than  is  at  the  disposal  opmeilt 
of  the  short  story  writer.     If  his  special  theme 
be  the  delineation  of  character,  he  dare  not 
choose   colorless  characters ;  if  his  theme  is 
character-development,  then  that  development 
must  be  hastened  by  striking  experiences,  — 
like  a  plant  forced  in  a  hothouse  instead  of 
left   to  the  natural  conditions  of   sun  and 


310  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

cloud  and  shower.  For  instance,  if  it  be  a 
love  story,  the  hero  and  heroine  must  begin 
their  decisive  battle  at  once,  without  the  ad- 
vantage of  a  dozen  chapters  of  preliminary 
skirmishing.  If  the  hero  is  to  be  made  into 
a  villain  or  a  saint,  the  chemistry  must  be  of 
the  swiftest ;  that  is  to  say,  unusual  forces  are 
brought  to  bear  upon  somewhat  unusual  per- 
sonalities. It  is  an  interesting  consequence 
of  this  necessity  for  choosing  the  exceptional 
rather  than  the  normal  that,  so  far  as  the 
character-element  is  concerned,  the  influence 
of  the  modern  short  story  is  thrown  upon  the 
side  of  romanticism  rather  than  of  realism, 
riot  alone  And  yet  it  is  by  no  means  neces- 

wlll  serve.        ^   that     ^    ^^     gt()ry    should 

depend  upon  character-drawing  for  its  effect. 
If  its  plot  be  sufficiently  entertaining,  comi- 
cal, novel,  thrilling,  the  characters  may  be 
the  merest  lay  figures  and  yet  the  story  re- 
main an  admirable  work  of  art.  Poe's  tales 
of  ratiocination,  as  he  loved  to  call  them,  like 
"The  Gold-Bug,"  "  The  Purloined  Letter," 
or  his  tales  of  pseudo-science,  like  "  A  De- 
scent into  the  Maelstrom,"  are  dependent  for 
none  of  their  power  upon  any  interest  attach- 
ing to  character.  The  exercise  of  the  pure 


THE  SHORT  STORY  311 

logical  faculty,  or  the  wonder  and  the  terror 
of  the  natural  world,  gives  scope  enough  for 
that  consummate  craftsman.  We  have  lately 
lost  one  of  the  most  ingenious  and  delightful 
of  American  story-writers,  whose  tales  of 
whimsical  predicament  illustrate  this  point 
very  perfectly.  Given  the  conception  of 
"Negative  Gravity,"  what  comic  possibili- 
ties unfold  themselves,  quite  without  refer- 
ence to  the  personality  of  the  experimenter  ! 
I  should  be  slow  to  assert  that  the  individual 
idiosyncrasies  of  the  passengers  aboard  that 
remarkable  vessel,  The  Thomas  Hyke,  do  not 
heighten  the  effect  produced  by  their  singu- 
lar adventure,  but  they  are  not  the  essence 
of  it.  "  The  Lady  or  the  Tiger  ?  "  remains 
a  perpetual  riddle,  does  it  not,  precisely  be- 
cause it  asks :  "  What  would  a  woman  do 
in  that  predicament  ?  "  Not  what  this  par- 
ticular barbarian  princess  would  do,  for  the 
author  cunningly  neglected  to  give  her  any 
individualized  traits.  We  know  nothing 
about  her ;  so  that  there  are  as  many  an- 
swers to  the  riddle  as  there  are  women  in  the 
world.  We  know  tolerably  well  what  choice 
would  be  made  in  those  circumstances  by  a 
specific  woman  like  Becky  Sharp  or  Dorothea 


312  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

Casaubon  or  Little  Em'ly ;  but  to  affirm  what 
a  woman  would  decide  ?  Ah,  no ;  Mr. 
Stockton  was  quite  too  clever  to  attempt 
that. 

Precisely  the   same  obliteration 

Obliteration          .  J 

of  personal  ot  personal  traits  is  to  be  noted  in 
some  tales  involving  situations  that 
are  meant  to  be  taken  very  seriously  indeed. 
The  reader  will  recall  Poe's  story  of  the 
Spanish  Inquisition,  entitled  "  The  Pit  and 
the  Pendulum."  The  unfortunate  victim  of 
the  inquisitors  lies  upon  his  back,  strapped 
to  the  stone  floor  of  his  dungeon.  Directly 
above  him  is  suspended  a  huge  pendulum,  a 
crescent  of  glittering  steel,  razor-edged,  which 
at  every  sweep  to  and  fro  lowers  itself  inch 
by  inch  towards  the  helpless  captive.  As  he 
lies  there,  gazing  frantically  upon  the  terrific 
oscillations  of  that  hissing  steel,  struggling, 
shrieking,  or  calculating  with  the  calmness 
of  despair,  Poe  paints  with  extraordinary 
vividness  his  sensations  and  his  thoughts. 
But  who  is  he  ?  He  is  nobody  —  anybody, 
—  he  is  John  Doe  or  Richard  Roe,  —  he  is 
man  under  mortal  agony  —  not  a  particular 
man ;  he  has  absolutely  no  individuality, 
save  possibly  in  the  ingenuity  by  means  of 


THE  SHORT  STORY  313 

which  he  finally  escapes.  I  should  not  wish 
to  imply  that  this  is  a  defect  in  the  story. 
By  no  means.  Poe  has  wrought  out,  no 
doubt,  precisely  the  effect  he  intended:  the 
situation  itself  is  enough  without  any  specific 
characterization ;  and  yet  suppose  we  had 
Daniel  Deronda  strapped  to  that  floor,  or 
Mr.  Micawber,  or  Terence  Mulvaney?  At 
any  rate,  the  sensations  and  passions  and 
wily  stratagems  of  these  distinct  personalities 
would  be  more  interesting  than  the  emotions 
of  Poe's  lay  figure.  The  novelist  who  should 
place  them  there  would  be  bound  to  tell  us 
what  they  —  and  no  one  else  —  would  feel 
and  do  in  that  extremity  of  anguish.  Not  to 
tell  us  would  be  to  fail  to  make  the  most  of  the 
artistic  possibilities  of  the  situation.  Poe's 
task,  surely,  was  much  less  complex.  "  The 
Pit  and  the  Pendulum  "  is  perfect  in  its  way; 
but  if  the  incident  had  been  introduced  into 
a  novel,  a  different  perfection  would  have  been 
demanded. 

Nor  is  it  otherwise  if  we  turn  to  Thei,aok. 
that  third  element  of  effect  in  fie-  groun(1- 
tion ;  namely,  the  circumstances  or  events  en- 
veloping the  characters  and    action  of   the 
tale.     The  nature  of  the  short  story  is  such 


314  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

that  both  characters  and  action  may  be  al- 
most without  significance,  provided  the  at- 
mosphere —  the  place  and  time  —  the  back- 
ground —  is  artistically  portrayed.  Here  is 
the  source  of  the  perennial  pleasure  to  be 
found  in  Mr.  P.  Deming's  simple  "  Adiron- 
dack Stories."  If  the  author  can  discover 
to  us  a  new  corner  of  the  world,  or  sketch 
the  familiar  scene  to  our  heart's  desire,  or  il- 
lumine one  of  the  great  human  occupations, 
as  war,  or  commerce,  or  industry,  he  has  it 
in  his  power,  through  this  means  alone,  to 
give  us  the  fullest  satisfaction.  The  modern 
feeling  for  landscape,  the  modern  curiosity 
about  social  conditions,  the  modern  aesthetic 
sense  for  the  characteristic  rather  than  for 
the  beautiful  as  such,  all  play  into  the  short 
story  writer's  hands.  Many  a  reader,  no 
doubt,  takes  up  Miss  Wilkins's  stories,  not 
because  he  cares  much  about  the  people  in 
them  or  what  the  people  do, but  just  to  breathe 
for  twenty  minutes  the  New  England  air  — 
if  in  truth  that  be  the  New  England  air ! 
You  may  even  have  homesickness  for  a  place 
you  have  never  seen,  —  some  Delectable 
Duchy  in  Cornwall,  a  window  in  Thrums,  a 
Californian  mining  camp  deserted  before  you 


THE  SHORT  STORY  315 

were  born,  —  and  Mr.  Quiller  Couch,  or  Mr. 
Barrie,  or  Bret  Harte  will  take  you  there, 
and  that  is  all  you  ask  of  them.  The  popu- 
larity which  Stephen  Crane's  war  stories  en- 
joyed for  a  season  was  certainly  not  due  to  his 
characters,  for  his  personages  had  no  charac- 
ter —  not  even  names  —  nor  to  the  plot,  for 
there  was  none.  But  the  sights  and  sounds 
and  odors  and  colors  of  War  —  as  Crane 
imagined  War  —  were  plastered  upon  his 
vacant-minded  heroes  as  you  would  stick  a 
poster  to  a  wall,  and  the  trick  was  done.  In 
other  words,  the  setting  was  sufficient  to  pro- 
duce the  intended  effect. 

It  is  true,  of  course,  that  many 

,  J    The  Wenfl- 

stones,  and  these  perhaps  or  the  ing  oi  these 

MIT          c  modes- 
highest  rank,  avail   themselves  or 

all  three  of  these  modes  of  impression.  Bret 
Harte's  "  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,"  Mr. 
Cable's  "  Posson  Jone,"  Mr.  Aldrich's  "  Mar- 
jorie  Daw,"  Mr.  Kipling's  "  The  Man  who 
would  be  King,"  Miss  Jewett's  "  The 
Queen's  Twin,"  Miss  Wilkins's  "  A  New  Eng- 
land Nun,"  Dr.  Bale's  "  The  Man  without 
a  Country,"  present  people  and  events  and 
circumstances,  blended  into  an  artistic  whole, 
that  defies  analysis.  But  because  we  some- 


316  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

times  receive  full  measure,  pressed  down  and 
running  over,  we  should  not  forget  that  the 
cup  of  delight  may  be  filled  in  a  simpler  and 
less  wonderful  way. 

This  thought  suggests  the  con- 

Opportunities       . 

aHordedto       sideration  oi  another  aspect  or  our 

the  writer. 

theme ;  namely,  the  opportunity 
which  the  short  story,  as  a  distinct  type  of 
literature,  gives  to  the  writer.  We  have 
seen  indirectly  that  it  enables  him  to  use  all 
his  material,  to  spread  before  us  any  hints  in 
the  fields  of  character  or  action  or  setting 
which  his  notebook  may  contain.  Mr.  Henry 
James's  stories  very  often  impress  one  as 
chips  from  the  workshop  where  his  novels 
were  built,  —  or,  to  use  a  less  mechanical 
metaphor,  as  an  exploration  of  a  tempting 
side  path,  of  whose  vistas  he  had  caught  a 
passing  glimpse  while  pursuing  some  of  his 
retreating  and  elusive  major  problems.  It  is 
obvious,  likewise,  that  the  short  story  gives 
a  young  writer  most  valuable  experience  at 
the  least  loss  of  time.  He  can  tear  up  and 
try  again.  Alas,  if  he  only  would  do  so  a 
little  oftener  !  He  can  test  his  fortune  with 
the  public  through  the  magazines,  without 
waiting  to  write  his  immortal  book.  For 


THE  SHORT  STORY  317 

older  men  in  whom  the  creative  impulse  is 
comparatively  feeble,  or  manifested  at  long 
intervals  only,  the  form  of  the  short  story 
makes  possible  the  production  of  a  small 
quantity  of  highly  finished  work.  But  these 
incidental  advantages  to  the  author  himself 
are  not  so  much  to  our  present  purpose  as 
are  certain  artistic  opportunities  which  his 
strict  limits  of  space  allow  him. 
In  the  brief  tale,  then,  he  may 

.  .  »     Didacticism. 

be  didactic  without  wearying  his 
audience.  Not  to  entangle  one's  self  in  the 
interminable  question  about  the  proper  lim- 
its of  didacticism  in  the  art  of  fiction,  one 
may  assert  that  it  is  at  least  as  fair  to  say  to 
the  author,  "  You  may  preach  if  you  wish, 
but  at  your  own  risk,"  as  it  is  to  say  to  him, 
"  You  shall  not  preach  at  all,  because  I  do 
not  like  to  listen."  Most  of  the  greater  Eng- 
lish fiction-writers,  at  any  rate,  have  the  hom- 
iletic  habit.  Dangerous  as  this  habit  is, 
uncomfortable  as  it  makes  us  feel  to  get  a 
sermon  instead  of  a  story,  there  is  sometimes 
no  great  harm  in  a  sermonette.  "  This  is  not 
a  tale  exactly.  It  is  a  tract,"  are  the  opening 
words  of  one  of  Mr.  Kipling's  stories,  and  the 
tale  is  no  worse  —  and  likewise,  it  is  true,  no 


318  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

better  —  for  its  profession  of  a  moral  pur- 
pose. Many  a  tract,  in  this  generation  so 
suspicious  of  its  preachers,  has  disguised  it- 
self as  a  short  story,  and  made  good  reading, 
too.  For  that  matter,  not  to  grow  quite  un- 
mindful of  our  white-robed,  white-bearded 
company  sitting  all  this  time  by  the  gate  of 
Jaffa,  there  is  a  very  pretty  moral  even  in 
the  artless  tale  of  Aladdin's  Lamp. 
Posing  The  story  -  writer,  furthermore, 

prowemi.  j^  ^Q  advantage  over  the  novel- 
ist, that  he  can  pose  problems  without  an- 
swering them.  When  George  Sand  and 
Charles  Dickens  wrote  novels  to  exhibit  cer- 
tain defects  in  the  organization  of  human 
society,  they  not  only  stated  their  case,  but 
they  had  their  triumphant  solution  of  the 
difficulty.  So  it  has  been  with  the  drama, 
until  very  recently.  The  younger  Dumas 
had  his  own  answer  for  every  one  of  his  pro- 
blem-plays. But  with  Ibsen  came  the  fashion 
of  staging  the  question  at  issue,  in  unmis- 
takable terms,  and  not  even  suggesting  that 
one  solution  is  better  than  another.  "  Here 
are  the  facts  for  you,"  says  Ibsen  ;  "  here 
are  the  modern  emotions  for  you  ;  my  work 
is  done."  In  precisely  similar  fashion  does 


THE   SHORT  STORY  319 

a  short  story  writer  like  Maupassant  fling  the 
facts  in  our  face,  brutally,  pitilessly.  We 
may  make  what  we  can  of  them;  it  is  no- 
thing to  him.  He  poses  his  grim  problem 
with  surpassing  skill,  and  that  is  all.  A 
novel  written  in  this  way  grows  intolerable, 
and  one  may  suspect  that  the  contemporary 
problem-novel  is  apt  to  be  such  an  unspeak- 
able affair,  not  merely  for  its  dubious  themes 
and  more  than  dubious  style,  but  because  it 
reveals  so  little  power  to  "  lay  "  the  ghosts 
it  raises. 

Again,  the  short  story  writer  is  ArtItTary 
always  asking  us  to  take  a  great  premises- 
deal  for  granted.  He  begs  to  be  aUowed  to 
state  his  own  premises.  He  portrays,  for 
instance,  some  marital  comedy  or  tragedy, 
ingeniously  enough.  We  retort,  "  Yes ;  but 
how  could  he  have  ever  fallen  in  love  with 
her  in  the  first  place  ?  "  "  Oh,"  replies  the 
author  off-hand,  "  that  is  another  story." 
But  if  he  were  a  novelist,  he  would  not  get 
off  so  easily.  He  might  have  to  write  twenty 
chapters,  and  go  back  three  generations,  to 
show  why  his  hero  fell  in  love  with  her  in 
the  first  place.  All  that  any  fiction  can  do 
—  very  naturally  —  is  to  give  us,  as  we  com- 


320  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

monly  say,  a  mere  cross-section  of  life.  There 
are  endless  antecedents  and  consequents  with 
which  it  has  no  concern  ;  but  the  cross-sec- 
tion of  the  story-writer  is  so  much  thinner 
that  he  escapes  a  thousand  inconveniences, 
and  even  then  considers  it  beneath  him  to 
explain  his  miracles. 

What  is  more,  the  laws  of  brevity 

Omission  of 

unlovely        and  unity  of  effect  compel  him  to 

details.  ....  i      P   TP  i 

omit,  in  his  portrayal  ot  lire  and 
character,  many  details  that  are  unlovely. 
Unless,  like  some  very  gifted  fiction-writers 
of  our  time,  he  makes  a  conscientious  search 
for  the  repulsive,  it  is  easy  for  him  to  paint  a 
pleasant  picture.  Bret  Harte's  earliest  stories 
show  this  happy  instinct  for  the  aesthetic,  for 
touching  the  sunny  places  in  the  lives  of  ex- 
tremely disreputable  men.  His  gamblers  are 
exhibited  in  their  charming  mood ;  his  out- 
casts are  revealed  to  us  at  the  one  moment 
of  self-denying  tenderness  which  insures  our 
sympathy.  Such  a  selective  method  is  per- 
fectly legitimate  and  necessary  ;  "  The  Luck 
of  Roaring  Camp  "  and  "  The  Outcasts  of 
Poker  Flat  "  each  contains  but  slightly  more 
than  four  thousand  words.  All  art  is  selec- 
tive, for  that  matter ;  but  were  a  novelist  to 


THE  SHORT  STORY  321 

take  the  personages  of  those  stories  and  ex- 
hibit them  as  full-length  figures,  he  would  be 
bound  to  tell  more  of  the  truth  about  them, 
unpleasant  as  some  of  the  details  would  be. 
Otherwise  he  would  paint  life  in  a  wholly 
wrong  perspective.  Bret  Harte's  master, 
Charles  Dickens,  did  not  always  escape  this 
temptation  to  juggle  with  the  general  truth  of 
things ;  the  pupil  escaped  it,  in  these  early 
stories  at  least,  simply  because  he  was  work- 
ing on  a  different  scale. 

The  space  limits  of  the  short  story 

n        •/       ±u       ri  i      Tlie  horril)le- 

allow  its  author  likewise  to  make 

artistic  use  of  the  horrible,  the  morbid,  the 
dreadful  —  subjects  too  poignant  to  give  any 
pleasure  if  they  were  forced  upon  the  atten- 
tion throughout  a  novel.  "  The  Black  Cat," 
"The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue,"  "A 
Descent  into  the  Maelstrom,"  are  admirable 
examples  of  Poe's  art ;  but  he  was  too  skill- 
ful a  workman  not  to  know  that  that  sort 
of  thing  if  it  be  done  at  all  must  be  done 
quickly.  Four  hundred  pages  of  "  The 
Black  Cat "  would  be  impossible. 

And  last  in  our  list  of  the  dis-  impr^,,,,. 
tinct  advantages  of  the  art  form  lsm- 
we  are  considering  is  the  fact  that  it  allows 


322  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

a  man  to  make  use  of  the  vaguest  sugges- 
tions, a  delicate  symbolism,  a  poetic  impres- 
sionism, fancies  too  tenuous  to  hold  in  the 
stout  texture  of  the  novel.  Wide  is  the 
scope  of  the  art  of  fiction  ;  it  includes  even 
this  borderland  of  dreams.  Poe's  marvelous 
"Shadow,  a  Parable,"  "Silence,  a  Fable;" 
Hawthorne's  "The  Hollow  of  the  Three 
Hills,"  or  "The  Snow -Image;"  many  a 
prose  poem  that  might  be  cited  from  French 
and  Russian  writers,  —  these  illustrate  the 
strange  beauty  and  mystery  of  those  twilight 
places  where  the  vagrant  imagination  hovers 
for  a  moment  and  flutters  on. 

It  will   be  seen  that  all  of  the 

The  under- 
lying opportunities  that  have  been  enu- 

prlnciple.  1          .  .  1 

merated — the  opportunity,  namely, 
for  innocent  didacticism,  for  posing  problems 
without  answering  them,  for  stating  arbitrary 
premises,  for  omitting  unlovely  details  and, 
conversely,  for  making  beauty  out  of  the  hor- 
rible, and  finally  for  poetic  symbolism  —  are 
connected  with  the  fact  that  in  the  short  story 
the  powers  of  the  reader  are  not  kept  long 
upon  the  stretch.  The  reader  shares  in  the 
large  liberty  which  the  short  story  affords  to 
the  author.  This  type  of  prose  literature, 


THE  SHORT  STORY  323 

like  the  lyric  in  poetry,  is  such  an  old,  and 
simple,  and  free  mode  of  expressing  the  art- 
ist's personality  !  As  long  as  men  are  inter- 
esting to  one  another,  as  long  as  the  infinite 
complexities  of  modern  emotion  play  about 
situations  that  are  as  old  as  the  race,  so  long 
will  there  be  an  opportunity  for  the  free  de- 
velopment of  the  short  story  as  a  literary 
form. 

Is  there  anything  to  be  said  upon 
the  other  side  ?  Are  the  distinct 
advantages  of  this  art  form  accom- 
panied  by  any  strict  conditions,  upon  con- 
formity to  which  success  depends  ?  For  the 
brief  tale  demands,  of  one  who  would  reach 
the  foremost  skill  in  it,  two  or  three  qualities 
that  are  really  very  rare. 

It  calls  for  visual  imagination  of  a  high 
order :  the  power  to  see  the  object ;  to  pene- 
trate to  its  essential  nature ;  to  select  the 
one  characteristic  trait  by  which  it  may  be  re- 
presented. A  novelist  informs  you  that  his 
heroine,  let  us  say,  is  seated  in  a  chair  by  the 
window.  He  tells  you  what  she  looks  like  : 
her  attitude,  figure,  hair  and  eyes,  and  so 
forth.  He  can  do  this,  and  very  often  seems 


324  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

to  do  it,  without  really  seeing  that  individual 
woman  or  making  us  see  her.  His  trained 
pencil  merely  sketches  some  one  of  the  same 
general  description,  of  about  the  equivalent 
hair  and  eyes,  and  so  forth,  seated  by  that 
general  kind  of  window.  If  he  does  not  suc- 
ceed in  making  her  real  to  us  in  that  pose, 
he  has  a  hundred  other  opportunities  before 
the  novel  ends.  Recall  how  George  Eliot 
pictures  Dorothea  in  "  Middlemarch,"  now 
in  this  position,  now  in  that.  If  one  scene 
does  not  present  her  vividly  to  us,  the  chances 
are  that  another  will,  and  in  the  end,  it  is 
true,  we  have  an  absolutely  distinct  image 
of  her.  The  short  story  writer,  on  the  other 
hand,  has  but  the  one  chance.  His  task, 
compared  with  that  of  the  novelist,  is  like 
bringing  down  a  flying  bird  with  one  bullet, 
instead  of  banging  away  with  a  whole  hand- 
ful of  birdshot  and  having  another  barrel  in 
reserve.  Study  the  descriptive  epithets  in 
Stevenson's  short  stories.  How  they  bring 
down  the  object !  What  an  eye !  And 
what  a  hand!  No  adjective  that  does  not 
paint  a  picture  or  record  a  judgment !  And 
if  it  were  not  for  a  boyish  habit  of  showing 
off  his  skill  and  doing  trick  shots  for  us  out 


THE  SHORT  STORY  32d 

of  mere  superfluity  of  cleverness,  what  judge 
of  marksmanship  would  refuse  Master  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  the  prize  ? 

An  imagination  that  penetrates 

Style 

to  the  very  heart  of  the  matter  ;  a 
verbal  magic  that  recreates  for  us  what  the 
imagination  has  seen,  —  these  are  the  tests 
of  the  tale-teller's  genius.  A  novel  may  be 
high  up  in  the  second  rank  —  like  Trollope's 
and  Bulwer-Lytton's  —  and  lack  somehow  the 
literary  touch.  But  the  only  short  stories 
that  survive  the  year  or  the  decade  are  those 
that  have  this  verbal  finish,  —  "  fame's  great 
antiseptic,  style."  To  say  that  a  short  story 
at  its  best  should  have  imagination  and  style 
is  simple  enough.  To  hunt  through  the 
magazines  of  any  given  month  and  find  such 
a  story  is  a  very  different  matter.  Out  of 
the  hundreds  of  stories  printed  every  week  in 
every  civilized  country,  why  do  so  few  meet 
the  supreme  tests?  To  put  it  bluntly,  does 
this  form  of  literature  present  peculiar  attrac- 
tions to  mediocrity  ? 

For  answer,  let  us  look  at  some  Whftt  Jt  j^ 
of   the    qualities  which  the    short  JiJSSSf5 
Story  fails  to  demand  from  those  power> 
who  use  it.     It  will  account  in  part  for  the 
number  of  short  stories  written. 


326  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

Very  obviously,  to  write  a  short  story 
requires  no  sustained  power  of  imagination. 
So  accomplished  a  critic  as  Mr.  Henry 
James  believes  that  this  is  a  purely  artificial 
distinction  ;  he  thinks  that  if  you  can  im- 
agine at  all,  you  can  keep  it  up.  Rus- 
kin  went  even  farther.  Every  feat  of  the 
imagination,  he  declared,  is  easy  for  the 
man  who  performs  it :  the  great  feat  is  pos- 
sible only  to  the  great  artist ;  yet  if  he  can  do 
it  at  all,  he  can  do  it  easily.  But  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  does  not  the  power  required  to 
hold  steadily  before  you  your  theme  and  per- 
sonages and  the  whole  little  world  where 
the  story  moves  correspond  somewhat  to  the 
strength  it  takes  to  hold  out  a  dumb-bell  ? 
Any  one  can  do  it  for  a  few  seconds ;  but  in 
a  few  more  seconds  the  arm  sags  ;  it  is  only 
the  trained  athlete  who  can  endure  even  to 
the  minute's  end.  For  Hawthorne  to  hold 
the  people  of  "  The  Scarlet  Letter  "  steadily 
in  focus  from  November  to  February,  to 
say  nothing  of  six  years'  preliminary  brood- 
ing, is  surely  more  of  an  artistic  feat  than  to 
write  a  short  story  between  Tuesday  and  Fri- 
day. The  three  years  and  nine  months  of 
unremitting  labor  devoted  to  "  Middlemarch  " 


THE  SHORT  STORY  327 

does  not  in  itself  afford  any  criterion  of  the 
value  of  the  book  ;  but  given  George  Eliot's 
brain  power  and  artistic  instinct  to  begin 
with,  and  then  concentrate  them  for  that  pe- 
riod upon  a  single  theme,  and  it  is  no  wonder 
that  the  result  is  a  masterpiece.  "Jan  van 
Eyck  was  never  in  a  hurry,"  says  Charles 
Reade  of  the  great  Flemish  painter  in  "  The 
Cloister  and  the  Hearth,"  —  "  Jan  van  Eyck 
was  never  in  a  hurry,  and  therefore  the  world 
will  not  forget  him  in  a  hurry."  This  sus- 
tained power  of  imagination,  and  the  patient 
workmanship  that  keeps  pace  with  it,  are  not 
demanded  by  the  brief  tale.  It  is  a  short 
distance  race,  and  any  one  can  run  it  indif- 
ferently well. 

Nor  does  the  short  story  demand 

„     .  ,  .   ,  Sanity. 

ot  its  author  essential  sanity, 
breadth,  and  tolerance  of  view.  How  morbid 
does  the  genius  of  a  Hoffmann,  a  Poe,  a  Mau- 
passant seem  when  placed  alongside  the  sane 
and  wholesome  art  of  Scott  and  Fielding  and 
Thackeray  !  Sanity,  balance,  naturalness  ; 
the  novel  stands  or  falls,  in  the  long  run,  by 
these  tests.  But  your  short  story  writer  may 
be  fit  for  a  madhouse  and  yet  compose  tales 
that  shall  be  immortal.  In  other  words,  we 


328  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

do  not  ask  of  him  that  he  shall  have  a  phi- 
losophy of  life,  in  any  broad,  complete  sense. 
It  may  be  that  Professor  Masson,  like  a  true 
Scotchman,  insisted  too  much  upon  the  intel- 
lectual element  in  the  art  of  fiction  when  he 
declared,  "  Every  artist  is  a  thinker  whether 
he  knows  it  or  not,  and  ultimately  no  artist 
will  be  found  greater  as  an  artist  than  he  was 
as  a  thinker."  But  he  points  out  here  what 
must  be  the  last  of  the  distinctions  we  have 
drawn  between  the  short  story  and  the  novel. 
When  we  read  "  Old  Mortality,"  or  "  Pen- 
dennis,"  or  "  Daniel  Deronda,"  we  find  in 
each  book  a  certain  philosophy,  "  a  chart  or 
plan  of  human  life."  Consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously held  or  formulated,  it  is  nevertheless 
there.  The  novelist  has  his  theory  of  this 
general  scheme  of  things  which  enfolds  us 
all,  and  he  cannot  write  his  novel  without  be- 
traying his  theory.  "  He  is  a  thinker  whether 
he  knows  it  or  not." 

Deals  with  But  the  short  story  writer,  with  all 
iragmonts.  respect  to  him,  need  be  nothing  of 
the  sort.  He  deals  not  with  wholes,  but  with 
fragments ;  not  with  the  trend  of  the  great 
march  through  the  wide  world,  but  with  some 
particular  aspect  of  the  procession  as  it  passes. 


THE   SHORT  STORY  329 

His  story  may  be,  as  we  have  seen,  the  merest 
sketch  of  a  face,  a  comic  attitude,  a  tragic 
incident ;  it  may  be  a  lovely  dream,  or  a  hor- 
rid nightmare,  or  a  page  of  words  that  haunt 
us  like  music.  Yet  he  need  not  be  consist- 
ent ;  he  need  not  think  things  through.  One 
might  almost  maintain  that  there  is  more  of 
an  answer,  implicit  or  explicit,  to  the  great 
problems  of  human  destiny  in  one  book  like 
"  Vanity  Fair  "  or  "  Adam  Bede  "  than  in 
all  of  Mr.  Kipling's  two  or  three  hundred 
short  stories  taken  together  —  and  Mr.  Kip- 
ling is  perhaps  the  most  gifted  story-teller  of 
our  time. 

Does  not  all  this  throw  some  light  Easy  utera_ 
upon  the  present  popularity  of  the  ture- 
short  story  with  authors  and  public  alike? 
Here  is  a  form  of  literature  easy  to  write  and 
easy  to  read.  The  author  is  often  paid  as 
much  for  a  story  as  he  earns  from  the  copy- 
rights of  a  novel,  and  it  costs  him  one  tenth 
the  labor.  The  multiplication  of  magazines 
and  other  periodicals  creates  a  constant  mar- 
ket, with  steadily  rising  prices.  The  quali- 
ties of  imagination  and  style  that  go  to  the 
making  of  a  first-rate  short  story  are  as  rare 
as  they  ever  were,  but  one  is  sometimes 


330  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

tempted  to  think  that  the  great  newspaper 
and  magazine  reading  public  bothers  itself 
very  little  about  either  style  or  imagination. 
The  public  pays  its  money  and  takes  its 
choice.  And  there  are  other  than  these  me- 
chanical and  commercial  reasons  why  the 
short  story  now  holds  the  field.  It  is  a  kind 
of  writing  perfectly  adapted  to  our  over- 
driven generation,  which  rushes  from  one 
task  or  engagement  to  another,  and  between 
times,  or  on  the  way,  snatches  up  a  story. 
Our  habit  of  nervous  concentration  for  a 
brief  period  helps  us  indeed  to  crowd  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure  into  the  half-hour  of  read- 
ing ;  our  incapacity  for  prolonged  attention 
forces  the  author  to  keep  within  that  limit, 
or  exceed  it  at  his  peril. 
Affecting  It  nas  been  frequently  declared 

other  form.      that    thig    popularity    Qf    tne    suorfc 

story  is  unfavorable  to  other  forms  of  imagi- 
native literature.  Many  English  critics  have 
pointed  out  that  the  reaction  against  the 
three-volume  novel,  and  particularly  against 
George  Eliot,  has  been  caused  by  the  univer- 
sal passion  for  the  short  story.  And  the 
short  story  is  frequently  made  responsible  for 
the  alleged  distaste  of  Americans  for  the 


THE  SHORT  STORY  331 

essay.  We  are  told  that  nobody  reads  mag- 
azine poetry,  because  the  short  stories  are  so 
much  more  interesting. 

In  'the  presence  of  all  such  brisk  Does  anyway 
generalizations,  it  is  prudent  to  ex-  know? 
ercise  a  little  wholesome  skepticism.  No  one 
really  knows.  Each  critic  can  easily  find  the 
sort  of  facts  he  is  looking  for.  American 
short  stories  have  probably  trained  the  public 
to  a  certain  expectation  of  technical  excel- 
lence in  narrative  which  has  forced  American 
novel-writers  to  do  more  careful  work.  But 
there  are  few  of  our  novel-writers  who  exhibit 
a  breadth  and  power  commensurate  with  their 
opportunities,  and  it  is  precisely  these  quali- 
ties of  breadth  and  power  which  an  appren- 
ticeship to  the  art  of  short  story  writing 
seldom  or  never  seems  to  impart.  The  wider 
truth,  after  all,  is  that  literary  criticism  has 
no  apparatus  delicate  enough  to  measure  the 
currents,  the  depths  and  the  tideways,  the 
reactions  and  interactions  of  literary  forms. 
Essays  upon  the  evolution  of  literary  types, 
when  written  by  men  like  M.  Brunetiere, 
are  fascinating  reading,  and  for  the  moment 
almost  persuade  you  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  a  real  evolution  of  types,  that  is, 


332  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

a  definite  replacement  of  a  lower  form  by  a 
higher.  But  the  popular  caprice  of  an 
hour  upsets  all  your  theories.  Mr.  Ho  wells 
had  no  sooner  proved,  a  few  years  ago,  that 
a  certain  form  of  realism  was  the  finally 
evolved  type  in  fiction,  than  the  great  read- 
ing public  promptly  turned  around  and  bought 
"  Treasure  Island."  That  does  not  prove 
"  Treasure  Island"  a  better  story  than  "  Silas 
Lapham ;  "  it  proves  simply  that  a  trout  that 
will  rise  to  a  brown  hackle  to-day  will  look 
at  nothing  but  a  white  miller  to-morrow  ;  and 
that  when  the  men  of  the  ice  age  grew  tired 
of  realistic  anecdotes  somebody  yawned  and 
poked  the  fire  and  called  on  a  romanticist. 
One  age,  one  stage  of  culture,  one  mood,  calls 
for  stories  as  naive,  as  grim  and  primitive  in 
their  stark  savagery  as  an  Icelandic  saga ; 
another  age,  another  mood,  — -  nay,  the  whim 
that  changes  in  each  one  of  us  between  morn- 
ing and  evening,  —  chooses  stories  as  delib- 
erately, consciously  artificial  as  "The  Fall  of 
the  House  of  Usher."  Both  types  are  ad- 
mirable, each  in  its  own  way,  provided  both 
stir  the  imagination.  For  the  types  will 
come  and  go  and  come  again  ;  but  the  human 
hunger  for  fiction  of  some  sort  is  never  sated. 


THE  SHORT   STORY  333 

Study  the  historical  phases  of  the  art  of  fiction 
as  closely  as  one  may,  there  come  moments 

—  perhaps  the    close   of    a   chapter   is   an 
appropriate  time  to  confess  it  —  when  one  is 
tempted  to  say  with  Wilkie  Collins  that  the 
whole  art  of  fiction  can  be  sum  toed  up  in 
three  precepts :  "  Make  'em  laugh  ;  make  'em 
cry  ;  make  'em  wait." 

The  important  thing,  the  really  The  won(ler. 
suggestive  and  touching  and  won-  worldl 
derful  thing,  is  that  all  these  thousands  of 
contemporary  and  ephemeral  stories  are 
laughed  over  and  cried  over  and  waited  for 
by  somebody.  They  are  read,  while  the 
"  large  still  books  "  are  bound  in  full  calf  and 
buried.  Do  you  remember  Pomona  in  "  Rud- 
der Grange  "  reading  aloud  in  the  kitchen 
every  night  after  she  had  washed  the  dishes, 
spelling  out  with  blundering  tongue  and 
beating  heart :  "  Yell  —  after  —  yell  —  re- 
sounded —  as — he  —  wildly  —  sprang,"  —  or 
"  Ha  —  ha  —  Lord  —  Marmont  —  thundered 

—  thou  —  too  —  shalt  —  suffer"?     We  are 
all  more  or  less  like  Pomona.     We  are  chil- 
dren at  bottom,  after  all  is  said,  children  un- 
der the  story-teller's  charm.     Nansen's  stout- 
hearted comrades  tell  stories  to  one  another 


334  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

while  the  Arctic  ice  drifts  onward  with  the 
Fram ;  Stevenson  is  nicknamed  The  Tale- 
Teller  by  the  brown-limbed  Samoans  ;  Chi- 
nese Gordon  reads  a  story  while  waiting  — 
hopelessly  waiting  —  at  Khartoum.  What 
matter  who  performs  the  miracle  that  opens 
for  us  the  doors  of  the  wonder- world  ?  It 
may  be  one  of  that  white-bearded  company  at 
the  gate  of  Jaffa ;  it  may  be  an  ardent  French 
boy  pouring  out  his  heart  along  the  bottom 
of  a  Paris  newspaper;  it  may  be  some  sober- 
suited  New  England  woman  in  the  decorous 
pages  of  "  The  Atlantic  Monthly  ;  "  it  may 
be  some  wretched  scribbler  writing  for  his 
supper.  No  matter,  if  only  the  miracle  is 
wrought;  if  we  look  out  with  new  eyes  upon 
the  many-featured,  habitable  world;  if  we 
are  thrilled  by  the  pity  and  the  beauty  of  this 
life  of  ours,  itself  brief  as  a  tale  that  is  told  ; 
if  we  learn  to  know  men  and  women  better, 
and  to  love  them  more. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

PRESENT   TENDENCIES    OF  AMERICAN   FIC- 
TION. 

"  The  literature  of  a  people  should  be  the  record  of  its  joys 
and  sorrows,  its  aspirations  and  its  shortcomings,  its  wisdom  and 
its  folly,  the  confidant  of  its  soul.  We  cannot  say  that  our  own 
as  yet  suffices  us,  but  I  believe  that  he  who  stands,  a  hundred 
years  hence,  where  I  am  standing  now,  conscious  that  he  speaks 
to  the  most  powerful  and  prosperous  community  ever  devised  or 
developed  by  man,  will  speak  of  our  literature  with  the  assur- 
ance of  one  who  beholds  what  we  hope  for  and  aspire  after,  be- 
come a  reality  and  a  possession  forever." 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL,  Our  Literature.    (1889.) 

"  Democracy  in  literature,  as  exemplified  by  the  two  great 
modern  democrats  in  letters,  Whitman  and  Tolstoi,  means  a  new 
and  more  deeply  religious  way  of  looking  at  mankind,  as  well 
as  at  all  the  facts  and  objects  of  the  visible  world.  It  means, 
furthermore,  the  finding  of  new  artistic  motives  and  values  in 
the  people,  in  science  and  the  modern  spirit,  in  liberty,  frater- 
nity, equality,  in  the  materialism  and  industrialism  of  man's  life 
as  we  know  it  in  our  day  and  land  —  the  carrying  into  imagina- 
tive fields  the  quality  of  common  humanity,  that  which  it  shares 
with  real  things  and  with  all  open-air  nature,  with  hunters,  farm- 
ers, sailors,  and  real  workers  in  all  fields." 

JOHN  BURROUGHS,  Democracy  and  Literature. 

IN  concluding  this  study  of  the 

&  »  Difficulties 

art  of  prose  fiction,  let  me  attempt  of  an  adequate 
a  survey  of  the  present  tendencies 


336  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

of  the  fiction  of  our  own  country.  It  goes 
without  saying  that  such  a  survey  presents 
difficulties  of  no  ordinary  kind.  The  field 
at  which  one  must  glance  is  so  vast,  the  varie- 
ties of  production  are  so  numerous,  the  charac- 
teristics of  the  phenomena  to  be  examined  so 
changeable  in  their  nature  from  year  to  year, 
that  anything  like  an  exact  appreciation  of 
our  national  fiction  is  out  of  the  question. 
One  must  content  oneself  with  suggestions, 
rather  than  with  any  detailed  exposition ; 
with  a  statement  of  some  of  the  conditions 
that  enter  into  the  question,  rather  than  with 
any  elaborate  attempt  at  reaching  a  fixed 
formula. 

A  knowledge  ^ne  danger  should  be  avoided 
oi  the  past  at  tke  outset  —  a  danger  never  so 

insistent  in  its  pressure  as  at  present  —  the 
danger,  namely,  of  being  too  contempora- 
neous in  one's  point  of  view.  Even  in  trying 
to  take  account  of  contemporary  tendencies, 
a  historic  sense  is  the  most  valuable  equipment 
for  the  task  of  criticism.  A  knowledge  of 
what  has  been  already  accomplished  in  the 
world  of  fiction  is  essential  if  one  is  to  have 
any  sense  of  perspective,  any  power  of  valu- 
ing new  claimants  to  the  honors  of  the  craft. 


TENDENCIES  OF  AMERICAN  FICTION   337 

The  heavens  are  full  of  literary  comets  in 
these  days,  and  their  course  can  be  measured 
only  by  reference  to  the  fixed  stars.  Those 
trite  sentences  of  advice  to  young  readers, 
"  When  a  new  book  comes  out,  read  an  old 
one,"  "  Read  no  book  until  it  is  fifty  years 
old,"  were  never  more  applicable  than  now, 
and  in  the  field  of  fiction.  The  multiplica- 
tion of  periodicals  issued  in  the  interest  of 
publishing  houses,  and  for  very  practical 
reasons  devoted  to  the  glorification  of  new 
writers  more  or  less  at  the  expense  of  old 
ones,  the  personal  gossip  about  the  literary 
heroes  of  the  hour,  tend  to  confuse  all  one's 
ideas  of  proportion.  A  people  gifted,  like 
ourselves,  with  a  sense  of  humor  will  sooner 
or  later  discount  the  extravagant  adjectives 
used  in  the  commercial  exploitation  of  new 
books.  But  meanwhile  there  is  a  mischief 
in  it  all ;  and  the  mischief  is  that  the  mind 
of  the  reading  public  is  systematically  jour- 
nalized. The  little  men,  by  dint  of  keeping 
their  names  before  us,  pass  in  many  quarters 
for  great  men.  The  historic  sense  is  bewil- 
dered, benumbed ;  and  when  we  attempt  an 
appraisal  of  fiction-writers  and  of  the  art 
of  fiction  itself  our  opinions  are  sadly  con- 
temporaneous. 


338  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

flobact  Before  our  judgment  of  a  CUP- 

luty  years,  rent  book  or  a  current  tendency 
can  have  any  particular  value,  we  must  un- 
derstand the  work  of  American  novelists  for 
at  least  the  last  half  century.  And  it  is  a 
somewhat  curious  fact  that  if  we  wish  to 
point  to  American  fiction-writers  who  have 
won  a  secure  place  in  the  world's  literature, 
we  must  go  back  fifty  years  or  more  to  find 
our  men.  When  an  intelligent  foreign  critic 
asks  us  what  writers  of  fiction  America  has 
to  show,  of  quality  and  force  worthy  to  be 
compared  with  the  masters  of  the  art  else- 
where, whom  can  we  name?  Fenimore 
Cooper  for  one :  the  author  of  "  The  Leather 
Stocking  Tales,"  "  The  Spy,"  and  "  The 
Pilot ;  "  the  creator  of  Natty  Bumppo,  and 
Chingachgook,  and  Long  Tom  Coffin.  His 
rank  is  unquestioned.  And  so  is  the  rank 
of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  who  has  a  reserved 
seat  for  immortality  if  any  one  has.  And 
there  is  a  third  candidate  for  universal  hon- 
ors, a  short  story  writer,  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 
Hawthorne,  Cooper,  Poe ;  these  men  are  be- 
yond the  need  and  the  reach  of  literary  log- 
rolling. 


TENDENCIES  OF  AMERICAN  FICTION   339 
But  when  we   have   mentioned  TJie 


names- 


these  three  Americans,  we  have 
nearly  or  quite  exhausted,  not  indeed  our 
riches  in  native  fiction,  hut  the  roll-call  of 
those  who  by  common  consent  have  won 
through  the  art  of  fiction  a  permanent  fame. 
Irving'  s  reputation  is  rather  that  of  an  essay- 
ist, pioneer  in  a  certain  field  of  fiction  though 
he  was.  One  would  hesitate  to  place  beside 
the  names  of  Cooper,  Hawthorne,  and  Poe 
the  name  of  the  author  of  "  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin,"  although  no  American  book  has  ever 
had  so  wide  a  vogue  in  other  countries,  or 
wakened  such  intense  emotion  in  our  own. 
Bret  Harte  would  have  some  suffrages,  no 
doubt  ;  and  many  a  critic  would  linger  in- 
quiringly and  affectionately  over  the  names 
of  Mark  Twain,  Howells,  Aldrich,  Stockton, 
James,  Cable,  Crawford,  and  many  another 
living  writer  of  admirable  workmanship  and 
honorable  rank.  But  I  suppose  that  there 
are  few  critics  who  would  deliberately  select 
among  these  later  men  a  fourth  to  be  placed 
in  equality  of  universal  recognition  with  that 
great  trio  who  more  than  half  a  century  ago 
were  in  the  fullness  of  their  power. 


340  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

quantity  ana  However,  three  such  men  are 
duality.  enough  to  give  distinction  to  the 
first  hundred  years  of  American  fiction-writ- 
ing. If  we  institute  a  comparison  in  quality 
between  American  and  English  and  Conti- 
nental fiction,  we  have  simply  to  point  to 
Hawthorne  alone.  In  bulk  his  contribution 
to  the  world's  pleasure  in  the  form  of  books 
is  slender  when  set  alongside  the  volumes  of 
Scott  or  Dickens  or  Dumas,  but  in  point  of 
quality  the  quiet  New  Englander  is  easily  the 
peer  of  the  greatest  story-writers  of  the 
world.  Even  when  judged  by  the  more  un- 
satisfactory test  of  quantity  of  production, 
American  fiction  can  nearly  or  quite  hold  its 
own  with  the  fiction  of  England,  France,  or 
Germany.  The  figures  of  the  book  market, 
while  interesting  enough  to  the  curious 
minded,  are  vitiated,  for  one  who  is  trying  to 
estimate  the  American  output  of  fiction,  by 
the  fact  of  the  immense  circulation  of  some 
novels  which  are  literature  only  by  courtesy, 
but  which  affect  statistics  just  as  much  as  if 
they  were  literature.  If  we  apply  the  test  of 
mere  quantity  of  production,  we  must  take 
into  account  not  only  all  these  books  that 
are  "  borderland  dwellers  "  between  literature 


TENDENCIES  OF  AMERICAN  FICTION  341 

and  non-literature,  but  an  immense  supply  of 
fiction  that  does  not  even  pretend  to  be  lit- 
erature any  more  than  a  clever  space-reporter 
for  a  Sunday  newspaper  pretends  that  his 
work  is  literature.  But  putting  all  such 
books  aside,  it  is  still  possible  to  select  twenty 
or  twenty-five  American  story- writers  of  the 
past  forty  years  who  have  published  enough 
good  books  to  place  American  fiction  well 
alongside  of  American  poetry,  and  certainly 
far  in  advance  of  American  music,  painting, 
sculpture,  or  architecture. 

From  this  body  of  work  is  it  pos-  preTalent 
sible  to  draw  any  conclusions  as  to  JUJj'jyjJJ 
the  character  of  our  fiction  ?     Can  80iL 
we  indicate  the  tendencies  which  have  been 
prevalent  in  the  past,  which  are  now  oper- 
ative, and  which  consequently  are  likely  to 
characterize  to  a  greater  or  less  extent  the 
American  novel  of  the  future  ?     There  are 
at  least  three  tendencies  to  which  attention 
should  be  drawn.     I  cannot  do  better  than 
follow   here    the    suggestions    of   Professor 
Richardson,1  who  thinks  that  the  first  is  the 
production  of  novels  of  the  soil,  that  is,  the 

1  Charles  F.   Richardson,  American  Literature.      2  Tola 
New  York  :  Putnam,  1889. 


342  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

presentation  of  American  types  and  scenes- 
The  service  of  Fenimore  Cooper  in  this  direc- 
tion was  a  most  important  one.  Before  his 
time,  Brockden  Brown,  for  instance,  had 
treated  American  themes,  yet  in  so  romantic  a 
fashion  as  to  disguise  the  reality.  But  Feni- 
more Cooper's  backwoodsmen  and  sailors  and 
frontier  landscapes  have  the  verity  of  nature 
herself.  Hawthorne,  too,  did  for  New  Eng- 
land, by  very  different  methods,  but  with  an 
equal  honesty  of  rendering,  what  Cooper  did 
for  northern  New  York.  Before  the  war, 
notes  Professor  Richardson,  there  were  few 
attempts  to  delineate  American  home  life  in 
the  various  sections  of  the  country ;  but  the 
improvement  in  American  minor  fiction  since 
1861  is  largely  owing  to  the  attempt  to  de- 
scribe American  life  as  it  is.  This  tendency 
is  growing  more  and  more  marked  with  every 
year ;  it  is  very  little,  if  at  all,  affected  by  the 
present  revival  of  romanticism ;  it  has  been 
helped,  rather  than  hindered,  by  the  sudden 
crop  of  historical  novels.  If  every  American 
county  has  not  its  novelist,  its  painter  of 
manners,  —  as  Scotland  is  said  to  have  had, 
—  at  least  every  state  can  show  fiction-writ- 
ers who  aim  to  delineate  local  conditions  as 


TENDENCIES  OF  AMERICAN   FICTION   343 

faithfully  as  they  may,  and  there  is  every 
reason  for  thinking  that  this  movement  will 
be  permanent. 

A    second    characteristic  which 

....  ,  .  Excellence  In 

has  hitherto  marked  American  nc-  a  limited 
tion,  and  one  that  follows  closely 
upon  the  first,  is  its  excellence  in  a  limited 
field,  rather  than  any  largeness  of  creative 
activity.  The  qualities  which  a  foreign  critic 
would  be  inclined  to  postulate  theoretically 
about  our  fiction,  reasoning  from  our  im- 
mense territory,  our  still  youthful  zest,  our 
boundless  faith  in  ourselves,  our  resources, 
—  in  short,  the  general  "bigness"  of  things 
American,  —  are  precisely  the  qualities  which 
our  fiction  has  hitherto  lacked.  Instead  of 
fertility  of  resource,  consciousness  of  power, 
great  canvases,  broad  strokes,  brilliant  color- 
ing, we  find  a  predominance  of  small  canvases, 
minute  though  admirable  detail,  neutral  tints, 
an  almost  academic  restraint,  a  consciousness 
of  painting  under  the  critic's  eye.  Ameri- 
can fiction  lacks  breadth  and  power.  What 
Walt  Whitman  tried,  with  very  imperfect 
success  one  must  admit,  to  do  in  the  field  of 
"  All- American  "  poetry,  if  I  may  use  the 
phrase,  no  one  has  even  attempted  to  do  in 


&14  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE   FICTION 

fiction.  Some  magazine  critics  have  expressed 
the  opinion  that  the  cause  of  this  is  to  be 
found  in  the  fact  that  the  conventional  stand- 
ards, the  critical  atmosphere,  of  the  effete  At- 
lantic seaboard  have  hitherto  been  dominant 
in  our  literature.  They  profess  to  believe 
that  when  the  "  literary  centre  "  of  the  coun- 
try is  established  at  Chicago,  or  Indianapolis, 
or  thereabouts,  our  fiction  will  assume  a  scale 
proportionate  to  the  bigness  of  our  continent. 
But  this  matter  is  not  so  simple  as  it  looks, 
and  the  question  whether  excellence  in  a 
small  way  rather  than  largeness  of  creative 
activity  will  continue  to  characterize  Ameri- 
can fiction  is  still  to  be  solved.  We  may 
find  some  light  thrown  upon  it  in  considering 
the  relation  of  sectional  to  national  fiction. 
Fundamental  ^  third  fact  impressed  upon  the 
morality.  student  of  the  American  novel  is 
its  fundamental  morality.  It  is  optimistic. 
Its  outlook  upon  life  is  wholesome.  The 
stain  of  doubtful  morality  or  flaring  immo- 
rality which  has  often  tinged  English  and  Con- 
tinental fiction,  and  made  both  the  English 
and  the  American  stage  at  times  unspeakably 
foul,  has  left  scarcely  any  imprint  as  yet  upon 
the  better  known  American  story-writers. 


TENDENCIES  OF  AMERICAN  FICTION   345 

Our  greater  magazines  have  remained  for  the 
most  part  unsoiled.  Bad  as  our  "  yellow  " 
newspapers  are,  brazen  as  our  stage  often  is, 
people  who  want  the  sex-novel,  and  want  it 
prepared  with  any  literary  skill,  have  to  import 
it  from  across  the  water.  The  outlook  for 
the  morality  of  the  distinctively  American 
novel  seems  assured.  If  our  professional 
novelists  have,  in  the  last  five  years,  withstood 
the  temptation  to  win  notoriety  and  money  by 
risque  books,  we  can  confidently  say  of  the 
American  fiction  of  the  future,  that  while  it 
may  not  be  national,  and  may  not  be  great, 
it  will  have  at  least  the  negative  virtue  of 
being  clean. 

We  are  now  in  a  position  to  esti- 

,.  .  i  •  i  i        The"repra- 

mate  the  conditions  which  must  be  sentative" 
met  by  an  American  writer  who 
hopes  that  his  books  may  be  in  some  true 
sense   representative   of    -the    national   life. 
Why  does  not  the  "  great  American  novel" 
which  we  talk  about,  and  about  which  we 
prophesy,  get  itself  written  ?     One  diniculty 
in  the  path  of  the  representative  American 
novel   has   already  been  pointed    out   indi- 
rectly.    It  lies  in  the  immensity  of  the  field 


346  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

to  be  covered ;  the  complexity  of  the  phenom- 
ena which  literature  must  interpret ;  the 
mixture  of  races,  customs,  traditions,  beliefs, 
ideals,  upon  this  continent.  We  are  a  united 
nation,  and  have  never  been  more  conscious 
of  the  national  life  and  more  proud  of  it  than 
since  the  twentieth  century  began  its  course. 
But  literature  is  an  affair  of  race  as  well  as 
of  nationality.  Study  the  variety  of  names 
upon  the  signboards  of  any  city ;  watch  the 
varying  racial  types  in  the  faces  of  your  fel- 
low citizens  as  you  travel  east  or  west,  north 
or  south.  Who  can  be  an  adequate  spokes- 
man for  all  this  ?  Homer  is  Greece,  but 
Greece  was  a  hand's  breadth  in  comparison 
with  us ;  Dante  is  Florence,  a  single  city ; 
Moliere,  Paris,  another  city ;  even  Shakespeare, 
the  "  myriad-minded,"  was  the  spokesman  of 
but  one  little  island,  though  that  was  the 
England  of  Elizabeth.  But  the  truth  is  that 
not  one  of  these  men  was  probably  conscious 
of  speaking  for  his  country  and  his  time.  It 
is  only  a  Balzac,  a  sort  of  gigantic  child,  who 
dares  to  set  himself  deliberately  to  the  task 
of  representing  all  France,  and  thereby  the 
entire  Human  Comedy.  As  civilization  wid- 
ens, as  more  and  more  subtle  differentiations 


TENDENCIES  OF  AMERICAN  FICTION   347 

make  themselves  manifest  in  society,  the  task 
becomes  increasingly  greater.  In  a  Walt 
Whitman  rhapsody  a  man  might  venture  to 
speak  for  "  these  States,"  but  a  writer  of 
prose,  in  possession  of  his  senses,  would  per- 
force decline  any  such  prophetic  function. 
Then,  too,  the  tendency  to  the  sectional 
production  of  sectional  fiction,  to  flct^on- 
which  allusion  has  just  been  made,  has  pre- 
vented our  fiction  from  taking  on  even  the 
semblance  of  national  quality.  By  dint  of 
keeping  their  eyes  on  the  object,  many  of  our 
best  writers  have  studied  but  the  narrowest 
of  fields.  They  do  not  represent,  or  pretend 
to  represent,  with  adequacy  the  entirety  even 
of  that  limited  province  for  which  they  stand 
as  representative  authors.  We  speak,  for  in- 
stance, of  Mr.  Cable,  Miss  Murfree,  Mr.  Page, 
Mr.  Allen,  Miss  Johnston,  Mr.  Harris,  Miss 
King,  and  a  half  dozen  more,  as  representa- 
tives of  the  South  in  contemporary  fiction ; 
but  they  exhibit  as  many  Souths  as  there  are 
writers.  Who  can  select  any  one  book  of 
these  skilled  story-tellers  and  say,  "  Here  is 
the  South  represented  through  the  art  o£ 
fiction  "  ?  Or  take  New  England,  as  inter- 
preted by  such  excellent  and  such  different 


348  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

writers  as  Mrs.  Stowe,  Miss  Jewett,  Miss 
Wilkins,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  Ward. 
Mrs.  Stowe  shows  one  New  England,  Miss 
Wilkins  another ;  each  is  marvelously  true 
to  the  local  color  selected ;  but  you  cannot 
take  "  Old  Town  Folks  "  and  "  Deephaven  " 
and  "  Pembroke  "  and  "  A  Singular  Life  " 
and  say  "  Here  is  New  England."  At  best 
you  can  say  "  Here  is  a  part  of  New  England." 
Now  if  there  is  a  difference  in  passing  from  the 
Vermont  or  Massachusetts  of  Miss  Wilkins  to 
the  Maine  of  Miss  Jewett,  think  of  the  dif- 
ference in  passing  from  these  to  the  Virginia 
of  Mr.  Page,  the  Northwest  of  Mr.  Garland, 
the  California  of  Bret  Harte,  the  Alaska  of 
Mr.  Jack  London  !  If  we  can  scarcely  find 
a  thoroughly  representative  sectional  novel, 
how  shall  we  expect  a  representative  national 
novel  ? 

international  -^n  additional  element  in  the 
iniinenoe».  denationalizing  of  our  fiction  lies 
in  the  fact  that  ours  is  peculiarly  a  day  of 
international  influences  in  literature.  Com- 
munication between  the  book-producing  coun- 
tries of  the  world  is  now  so  easy,  the  work 
of  foreign  authors  so  accessible,  international 
gossip  so  entertaining  and  necessary  to  us, 


TENDENCIES  OF  AMERICAN  FICTION    349 

that  it  sometimes  seems  as  if  literature  were 
adopting  the  socialists'  programme  of  doing 
away  with  national  lines  altogether,  of  creat- 
ing a  vast  brotherhood  of  letters  in  which 
the  accident  of  residence  in  Belgium  or  Scot- 
land or  South  Dakota  counts  for  nothing. 
So  far  as  Continental  fiction  makes  its  influ- 
ence felt  in  this  country,  it  touches  not  so 
much  the  mass  of  readers  as  those  who  them- 
selves are  producers  of  fiction.  In  some  inter- 
esting statistics  showing  the  hundred  novels 
most  often  drawn  from  American  public 
libraries,  in  the  order  of  their  popularity, 
gathered  by  Mr.  Mabie  for  "  The  Forum  "" 
a  few  years  ago,  the  absence  of  modern 
French  and  Russian  masters  from  the  list  was 
most  noticeable.  The  American  public  does 
not  read  Turgenieff  and  Tolstoi,  Flaubert 
and  Daudet,  Bjornson  and  D'Annunzio  so 
very  much  ;  indeed  it  reads  them  very  little. 
But  wherever  writers  of  fiction  gather,  it  is 
names  like  these  that  are  discussed.  And 
even  for  the  general  public,  a  book's  foreign 
reputation  is  impressive,  although  the  book 
may  be  little  read  here.  A  London  reputa- 
tion, particularly,  may  make  the  fortune  of  a 
novel  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  For  all  oui 


350  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

talk  about  outgrowing  colonialism,  we  have 
never  been  more  colonial  than  at  present, 
though  we  call  this  spirit  cosmopolitanism.  A 
very  pretty  essay  might  be  written  to  prove 
that  the  much-praised  cosmopolitanism  of 
some  of  our  successful  young  novelists  is 
only  a  sort  of  varnished  provincialism,  the 
real  fibre  of  it  differing  not  so  very  much 
from  the  innocent  provincialism  of  the  man 
who  comes  back  from  his  first  ten  weeks'  trip 
abroad  and  tells  you  buoyantly  that  he  has 
"  been  everywhere  and  seen  everything." 
Genuine  pro-  Now  a  genuine  provincialism,  as 
vinoiaiism.  tne  history  of  literature  abundantly 
proves,  is  not  a  source  of  weakness.  It  is  a 
strength.  Carlyle  was  provincial.  Scott  was 
provincial.  Burns  and  Wordsworth  and  Whit- 
tier  were  provincial.  They  were  rooted  in  the 
soil,  and  by  virtue  of  that  they  became  repre- 
sentative. In  our  own  political  life,  who  have 
been  our  most  truly  representative  men  ? 
Webster,  the  rugged  son  of  New  Hampshire 
and  Massachusetts,  spoke  as  no  other  man 
spoke,  "for  the  country  and  the  whole  coun- 
try." It  was  the  gaunt  rustic  President  from 
Kentucky  and  Illinois  who  has  become,  in 
Lowell's  noble  phrase,  "  our  first  American." 


TENDENCIES  OF  AMERICAN  FICTION   351 
Perhaps  these  figures  outside  the 

A  representa- 

field  of  literature  will  help  us  to  see  tive  man  of 
the  conditions  for  a  representative 
national  figure  in  literature.  Those  condi- 
tions can  be  met  only  by  a  powerful  person- 
ality in  harmony  with  its  age.  The  person- 
ality must  be  great  enough  to  take  up  into 
itself  the  great  thoughts  and  feelings  of  its 
time,  and  transform  them,  personalize  them, 
use  them,  and  not  be  overwhelmed  by  them. 
Such  a  personality  represents  its  age  and 
country,  not  by  the  method  of  extension  so 
much  as  by  the  method  of  intension,  not  by 
a  wide  superficial  acquaintance  with  cities 
and  with  men,  but  by  seeing  deeply,  and 
thinking  deeply,  and  feeling  deeply.  It  is 
by  means  of  such  power  that  Cooper  and 
Hawthorne  are  American,  as  Fielding  is  Eng- 
lish, Victor  Hugo  French,  and  Turgenieff 
Russian.  If  the  future  grants  us  sufficiently 
powerful  individuals,  thoroughly  American- 
ized, we  shall  have  representative  American 
novelists. 

A  further  question  forces  itself 

1  Democracy. 

upon  us,  and  one  by  no  means  easy 

to  answer.     How  is  our  fiction  to  be  affected 

by  the  vast  democratic  movement  which  is 


352  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

changing  the  face  of  society  throughout  the 
civilized  world  ?  There  is  at  the  present 
moment  a  reaction  against  liberalism  in 
England  and  upon  the  continent,  and  a  corre- 
sponding reaction  against  republicanism  here. 
These  reactions  are  more  wide-spread  than  at 
any  time  for  sixty  years  past,  but  they  have 
been  brought  about  by  peculiar  conditions, 
and  no  one  supposes  that  they  will  ultimately 
block  the  wheels  of  advancing  democracy. 
"  The  people  will  conquer  in  the  end,"  as 
Byron  prophesied  as  long  ago  as  1821.  Now 
how  will  this  triumph  of  the  people  affect 
literature  ?  Are  we  to  have  an  epoch  of 
distinctively  democratic  art,  and  if  we  are, 
what  sort  of  fiction  can  we  imagine  as  flourish- 
ing in  that  epoch  ?  Said  J.  A.  Symonds,  in 
his  essay  on  "  Democratic  Art,"  — 

"  In  past  epochs  the  arts  had  a  certain  unconscious 
and  spontaneous  rapport  with  the  nations  which  begat 
them,  and  with  the  central  life-force  of  those  nations 
at  the  moment  of  their  flourishing.  Whether  that  cen- 
tral energy  was  aristocratic,  as  in  Hellas,  or  monarchic, 
as  in  France,  or  religious,  as  in  mediaeval  Europe,  or 
intellectual,  as  in  Renaissance  Italy,  or  national,  as  in 
Elizabethan  England,  or  widely  diffused  like  a  fine 
gust  of  popular  intelligence,  as  in  Japan,  signified 
comparatively  little.  Art  expressed  what  the  people 


TENDENCIES  OF  AMERICAN  FICTION    353 

had  of  noblest  and  sincerest,  and  was  appreciated  by 
the  people." 

Can  there  be  anything  like  this  in  the  new 
era  toward  which  we  are  hastening?  Mr. 
Symonds  himself  was  compelled  to  give  up 
the  question  as  at  present  unanswerable. 
It  is  undeniable  that  the  aristocratic  tradi- 
tion still  holds  firm  in  almost  all  the  arts. 
"  Kings,  princesses,  and  the  symbols  of  chiv- 
alry," says  the  English  critic  Mr.  Gosse, 
"  are  as  essential  to  poetry  as  we  now  con- 
ceive it,  as  roses,  stars,  or  nightingales," 
and  he  does  not  see  what  will  be  left  if  this 
romantic  phraseology  is  done  away  with. 
"  We  shall  certainly  have  left,"  retorted 
John  Burroughs,  "  what  we  had  before 
these  aristocratic  types  and  symbols  came  into 
vogue,  namely,  nature,  life,  man,  God." 
But  can  poets  and  novelists  find  new  artis- 
tic material  in  the  people,  the  plain  people 
who  are  so  soon  to  hold  the  field?  Walt 
Whitman  declared,  in  a  fine  passage  of  his 
"  Democratic  Vistas,"  — 

"  Literature,  strictly  considered,  has  never  recog- 
nized the  People,  and  whatever  may  be  said,  does  not 
to-day.  I  know  nothing  more  rare  even  in  this  coun- 
try than  a  fit  scientific  estimate  and  reverent  appre« 


354  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

ciation  of  the  People  —  of  their  measureless  wealth  of 
latent  power  and  capacity,  their  vast  artistic  contrasts 
of  lights  and  shades,  with,  in  America,  their  entire 
reliability  in  emergencies,  and  a  certain  breadth  of 
historic  grandeur,  of  peace  or  war,  far  surpassing  all 
the  vaunted  samples  of  book-heroes  ...  in  all  the 
records  of  the  world." 

"The divine        The    question    is   simply   this: 

average."          «  JJQW  W'JJ  aj}  fae   phenomena  of  a 

great  democratic  society  be  able  to  touch  the 
poet  or  novelist  imaginatively?  "  And  I  think 
no  one  has  felt  the  significance  of  this  ques- 
tion more  adequately  than  Whitman.  He 
has  tried  to  answer  it  in  his  not  very  clearly 
expressed  phrase  about  recognizing  "  the 
divine  average."  What  he  means  by  the  di- 
vine average  is  simply  the  presence  of  the 
divine  in  average  human  beings.  If  we 
grant  the  presence  of  that  element  in  the 
"  average  sensual  man,"  —  an  element  which 
appeals  to  the  sense  of  beauty  and  sublimity, 
which  fires  the  imagination  of  the  artist,  — 
then  democratic  art  is  possible.  Without  it 
there  can  never  be  any  democratic  art,  and 
we  had  better  stick  to  kings  and  princesses, 
to  Prisoners  of  Zenda  and  Gentlemen  of 
France.  But  if  one  has  read  Dickens  or 
George  Eliot  or  Kipling,  or  any  of  the  Ameri- 


TENDENCIES  OF  AMERICAN  FICTION    355 

can  novelists  who  have  been  faithful  to  the 
actual  life  of  these  United  States,  one  knows 
that  an  art  of  fiction  is  even  now  in  existence 
which  does  recognize  the  people,  which  re- 
veals, however  imperfectly,  the  diviner  quali- 
ties in  the  life  of  the  ordinary  man. 

How  is  the  art  of  fiction  destined  Puture 
to  be  changed  as  this  recognition  is  types- 
more  and  more  widely  made  ?  Will  the  real- 
istic or  romantic  type  of  fiction  be  best  fitted 
to  the  needs  of  the  coming  democracy  ?  Per- 
haps this  question,  too,  cannot  be  answered, 
and  yet  one  or  two  assertions  may  fairly  be 
made.  Democracy  insists  increasingly  upon 
conformity  to  ordinary  types.  It  is  a  pitiless 
leveler,  whether  up  or  down.  It  is  fatal  to 
eccentricities,  to  extravagant  personal  char- 
acteristics, in  a  word,  to  a  large  part  of  the 
field  from  which  romantic  fiction  draws  its 
power.  Romantic  types  of  character,  as  far 
as  they  have  external  marks  of  peculiarity, 
are  probably  destined  to  extinction.  And 
our  sense  of  wonder  at  outward  things  is 
steadily  diminishing.  Marvels  have  grown 
stale  to  us.  We  no  longer  gape  over  the 
telegraph,  the  telephone,  the  "  wireless  ;  "  we 
shall  gape  at  the  flying  machine  for  a  few 


356  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

days  at  longest.  There  will  be  one  day  no 
more  unexplored  corners  of  the  world,  no 
"  road  to  Mandalay."  We  shall  be  forced 
to  turn  inward  to  discover  the  marvelous ; 
"  Cathay  and  all  its  wonders  "  must  be  found 
in  us  or  nowhere.  The  effect  of  all  this 
upon  fiction  will  be  unmistakable.  If  novels 
of  the  outward  life,  of  conformity  to  known 
facts  and  types,  are  written,  they  will  be  real- 
istic in  method ;  the  old  romantic  fiction 
machinery  will  become  the  veriest  lumber. 
There  will  come  again  an  age  of  realism  in 
fiction,  if  a  fiction  is  desired  which  keeps  close 
to  life.  We  may  imagine  that  the  readers 
of  that  age  will  smile  at  Victor  Hugo  and 
praise  "  Middlemarch."  But  the  history  of 
literature  has  taught  us  that  men  have  al- 
ways craved  what  I  may  call  the  fiction  of 
compensation,  the  fiction  that  yields  them 
what  life  cannot  yield  them.  And  as  the 
inner  world  will  then  be  the  marvelous  world, 
I  imagine  the  fiction  of  compensation  will 
take  the  form,  not  of  adventures  in  South 
Seas  and  Dark  Continents,  but  of  the  psycho' 
logical  romance,  pure  and  simple.  Readers 
will  then  smile  at  "  Treasure  Island  "  and 
praise  "  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde." 


TENDENCIES  OF  AMERICAN  FICTION    357 
If  all  this  appears,  as  perhaps  it 


well  may,  too  fanciful  a  picture,  let  theme"' 
us  turn  to  the  kind  of  subjects  with  which 
American  novelists  of  the  immediate  future 
seem  likely  to  occupy  themselves.  That 
there  will  be  very  shortly  —  if  indeed  there 
is  not  already  —  a  reaction  against  over-pro- 
duction of  Colonial,  Revolutionary,  and  other 
types  of  American  historical  fiction,  cannot 
be  doubted  But  this  is  chiefly  because  the 
supply  nan  Temporarily  outrun  the  demand. 
The  story  of  our  own  ancestors  and  their 
struggles  upon  American  soil  will  never  lose 
its  essential  fascination  when  depicted,  not 
by  a  horde  of  imitative  weaklings,  but  by 
masters  of  the  fictive  art.  The  marvelous 
epic  of  the  settlement  of  the  western  half  of 
the  continent  still  waits  an  adequate  reciter. 
We  have  had  already  a  legion  of  Civil  War 
stories,  and  yet  we  have  not  begun  to  see  the 
wealth  of  material  which  that  epoch  holds 
for  the  true  imaginative  artist.  The  romance 
of  labor,  of  traffic,  of  politics,  in  our  strangely 
composite  civilization,  has  been  perceived  by  a 
few  writers  ;  but  how  much  is  still  to  be  told  ! 

For  American  social  life  is  chan- 
ging,  taking  account  of  itself  before  worl(L 


358  A  STUDY   OF  PROSE  FICTION 

our  eyes,  readjusting  itself,  and  a  thousand 
subtle,  delightful,  forceful  themes  are  thus 
laid  open  to  the  novelist.  He  will  follow  in 
the  wake  of  all  these  social  movements  of 
the  twentieth  century  as  the  sea-birds  follow 
the  steamer,  sure  of  finding  the  fit  morsel 
soon  or  late.  But  that  simile  is  inapt ;  the 
novelist  is  not  like  a  creature  watching  the 
course  of  a  mechanism  ;  he  is  a  creature  en- 
raptured with  something  that  is  itself  alive, 
changing  from  hour  to  hour,  unfolding,  per- 
fecting itself  from  generation  to  generation. 
We  talk  of  human  nature  being  ever  the 
same ;  but  nothing  is  falser  to  the  facts  of 
life  and  the  process  of  the  world's  growth. 
Brute  nature  does  remain  the  same.  The 
ape  and  tiger  of  this  hour  are,  so  far  as  we 
know,  exactly  the  same  ape  and  tiger  that 
our  ancestors  fought  in  the  stone  age.  But 
the  ape  and  tiger  in  us  dies,  though  slowly  ; 
the  brute  passions  are  not  destined  forever  to 
sway  the  balance  in  our  lives.  The  human 
spirit  changes,  widens,  grows  richer  and  more 
beautiful  with  the  infinite  years  of  man's 
history  upon  this  planet.  And  over  against 
this  wonderful  process  of  development  stands 
the  novelist,  himself  a  part  of  it  all,  and  yet 


TENDENCIES  OF  AMERICAN  FICTION    359 

one  of  its  interpreters.  If,  watching  that 
changing  human  spectacle,  he  finds  no  stories 
to  tell,  discovers  no  charm  or  beauty  or  so- 
lemnity, it  is  not  because  these  things  are 
not  there,  but  because  his  eyes  are  holden. 
We  need  have  no  fear  that  the 

•  V  M 

future  American  novelist  will  iail 

n&tloo. 

in  power  of  expression.  The  tech- 
nical finish  of  his  work  is  assured  by  the 
standard  that  has  been  already  reached. 
Decade  by  decade  one  can  mark  the  steady 
development  of  the  American  novelist  in  all 
that  pertains  to  mere  craftsmanship.  But 
the  value  of  his  work  will  not  turn  primarily 
upon  its  technical  excellence  on  the  side  of 
form.  Cleverness  of  hand  he  will  certainly 
possess ;  but  as  I  have  said  more  than  once 
already,  cleverness  of  hand  is  not  enough. 
If  his  work  is  to  have  any  significant  place 
in  the  literature  of  the  world,  he  must  learn 
to  see  and  feel  and  think,  and  what  he  sees 
and  feels  and  thinks  will  depend  solely  upon 
what  he  is  himself.  The  "  great  American 
novel "  will  probably  never  be  written  by  a 
man  who  suspects  that  he  is  doing  anything 
of  the  sort.  It  is  quite  likely  to  come, 
as  other  greater  things  than  novels  come, 


360  A  STUDY  OF  PROSE  FICTION 

"without  observation."  You  and  I — Gen- 
tle Reader  with  whom  I  am  parting  company 
—  may  never  see  it,  but  ultimately  nothing 
is  so  certain  as  the  triumph  of  the  things  of 
the  spirit  over  the  gross  material  forces  of 
American  civilization.  Summer  itself  is  not 
so  sure  in  its  coming  as  the  imagination  in 
its  own  time* 


APPENDIX 


APPENDIX 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  STUDY 

THE  first  chapter  of  this  book  gives  an  outline  of 
the  method  of  studying  fiction  which  has  been  fol- 
lowed throughout  the  volume.  Teachers  and  students 
who  may  desire  to  do  further  work  for  themselves 
along  the  lines  here  suggested,  or  in  other  fields  of 
investigation,  are  advised  to  give  that  first  chapter  a 
second  reading,  in  the  light  thrown  upon  it  by  the 
book  as  a  whole.  It  will  help  them  to  remember  the 
specific  purpose  of  this  volume,  and  to  see  the  rela- 
tion between  its  method  and  that  of  other  works  to 
which  the  attention  of  the  student  should  now  be 
called.  Some  of  my  readers  will  be  solitary  students, 
free  to  follow  any  path  they  like  into  the  pleasant  fields 
of  the  theory  and  practice  of  story-writing.  Others  will 
be  members  of  reading  circles  and  clubs,  where  there 
is  a  definite  although  perhaps  not  very  strenuous  line 
of  study  mapped  out  in  advance.  Still  others  will,  I 
hope,  belong  to  school  and  college  classes,  bent  upon 
serious  endeavor  to  learn  as  much  as  possible  about  an 
art  which  has  established  its  significance  and  value  as 
an  interpreter  of  modern  life.  In  the  bibliographies 
and  other  aids  and  suggestions  for  study  which  I  shall 
now  give,  I  have  endeavored  to  keep  in  mind  these 


364  APPENDIX 

varying  requirements  of  my  readers.  Some  of  the 
work  outlined  is  extremely  elementary.  But  I  have 
&lso  indicated  some  tasks  which  will  need  the  full  pow- 
ers of  the  student.  The  arrangement  of  this  supple- 
mentary work  is  such,  however,  that  teachers  will  find 
no  difficulty,  I  trust,  in  selecting  from  it  such  courses  of 
reading  and  topical  exercises  as  shall  best  suit  the  spe- 
cific needs  of  their  classes.  I  cannot  urge  too  strongly 
the  advisability  of  a  detailed  analytic  study  of  some 
one  representative  novel,  and,  if  possible,  an  acquaint, 
ance  with  the  entire  production  of  one  of  the  greater 
novelists,  before  attempting  more  than  a  bird's-eye  view 
of  any  national  fiction  as  a  whole.  The  average  college 
student,  in  particular,  needs  training  in  the  analysis  of 
a  single  work,  and  in  steady  reflection  upon  the  pro- 
blems presented  by  it,  far  more  than  he  needs  a  greater 
familiarity  with  the  novelists  of  his  own  day.  Most  of 
us  will  remain  readers  of  fiction  all  our  lives  long,  but 
the  chosen  time  for  the  serious  study  of  fiction  is  in 
those  golden  years  when  we  first  perceive  the  treasures 
of  thought  and  imagination,  the  breathing  images  of 
passionate  human  life,  revealed  to  us  by  the  novelists. 


I 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

a.  Introductory :  ^Esthetics.  Since  the  method  fol- 
lowed in  our  study  is  primarily  that  of  aesthetic  criti- 
cism, the  student  of  the  art  of  fiction  should,  if  possi- 
ble, acquaint  himself  in  some  degree  with  the  theory 
of  the  Fine  Arts  and  their  place  in  human  life.  For  a 


APPENDIX  365 

general  survey  of  the  field  of  Esthetics,  see  the  arti- 
cles "  Esthetics,"  by  James  Sully,  and  "  Fine  Arts,"  by 
Sidney  Colvin,  in  the  Encyclopaedia  Brltannica.  Bald- 
win Brown's  The  Fine  Arts  (University  Extension 
Manuals,  Scribners)  is  a  useful  handbook.  Bosanquet's 
voluminous  History  of  ^Esthetic  (Macmillan)  is  ex- 
tremely valuable  to  the  advanced  student.  See  also 
his  Three  Lectures  on  ^Esthetic  (N.  Y.,  1919),  and 
K.  Gordon's  ^Esthetics  (N.  Y.,  1909).  Most  of  the 
standard  treatises  upon  ^Esthetics  are  indicated  in  the 
card  catalogue  of  any  good  library ;  for  an  extended 
bibliography,  consult  Gayley  and  Scott,  Methods  and 
Materials  of  Literary  Criticism  (Ginn  &  Co.,  1899). 
b.  Introductory:  Poetics.  After  this  preliminary 
survey  of  the  field  of  Esthetics,  the  student  is  recom- 
mended to  acquaint  himself  with  some  of  the  many 
helpful  discussions  of  poetic  theory.  How  closely  the 
field  of  Poetics  is  allied  to  that  of  Prose  Fiction  we 
have  already  seen  in  the  second  and  third  chapters. 
The  most  famous  of  all  treatises  on  Poetics  is  that 
of  Aristotle.  There  are  many  good  translations ;  the 
admirable  one  by  Professor  S.  H.  Butcher  (Macmil- 
lan, 2d  ed.,  1898)  is  enriched  by  interpretative  essays 
dealing  with  the  disputable  passages.  A  general  bibli- 
ography for  Poetics,  with  brief  comment  upon  the  im- 
portant treatises,  will  be  found  in  Gayley  and  Scott. 
The  article  on  "  Poetry "  by  Theodore  Watts  in  the 
Encyclopaedia  Britannica  is  noteworthy.  Gummere's 
Poetics  (Ginn  &  Co.)  is  an  excellent  brief  handbook  ; 
see  also  his  Beginnings  of  Poetry  (Macmillan,  1901) 
and  W.  J.  Courthope's  Life  in  Poetry  —  Law  in  Taste 
(Macmillan,  1901).  Volumes  like  Stedman's  Nature 
and  Elements  of  Poetry  (Houghton  MilHin  Co.)  and 


366  APPENDIX 

C.  C.  Everett's  Poetry,  Comedy,  and  Duty  (Houston 
Mifflin  Co.)  are  stimulating.  See  also  Fairchild's  Mak- 
ing of  Poetry  (N.  Y.,  1912),  Eastman's  Enjoyment  of 
Poetry  (N.  Y.,  1913),  Neilson's  Essentials  of  Poetry 
(Boston,  1912),  Newbolt's  New  Study  of  English  Po- 
etry (N.  Y.,  1919),  Lowes's  Convention  and  Revolt  in 
Poetry  (Boston,  1919),  Untermeyer's  New  Era  in 
American  Poetry  (N.  Y.,  1919),  and  the  bibliography 
in  Bliss  Perry's  Study  of  Poetry  (Boston,  1920). 

That  portion  of  the  territory  of  Poetics  which  is 
occupied  with  the  Theory  of  the  Drama  is  especially 
important  for  the  student  of  fiction.  Useful  books  are 
Freytag's  Technique  of  the  Drama  (Eng.  trans.,  S.  C. 
Griggs  &  Co.),  Elisabeth  Woodbridge's  The  Drama; 
its  Law  and  Technique  (Allyn  &  Bacon),  Alfred  Hen- 
nequin's  Art  of  Play  Writing  (Houghton  Mifflin  Co.), 
Price's  Technique  of  the  Drama  (Brentano),  Moulton's 
Ancient  Classical  Drama  and  Shakespeare  as  a  Dra- 
matic Artist  (Macmillan),  Clayton  Hamilton's  Theory  of 
the  Theatre  (N.  Y.,  1910),  Studies  in  Stagecraft  (N.  Y., 
1914),  and  Problems  of  the  Playwright  (N.  Y.,  1917), 
William  Archer's  Play-making  (London,  19 12),  Brander 
Matthews's  Study  of  the  Drama  (Boston,  1910),  Hen- 
derson's Changing  Drama  (N.  Y.,  1914),  and  G.  P. 
Baker's  Development  of  Shakespeare  as  a  Dramatist 
(N.  Y.,  1907)  and  Dramatic  Technique  (Boston,  1919). 

c.  Prose  Fiction:  Historical.  Two  admirable 
sketches  of  the  history  of  English  prose  fiction  are 
Walter  Raleigh's  The  English  Novel  (Scribners,  1894) 
and  Wilbur  L.  Cross's  The  Development  of  the  English 
Novel  (Macmillan,  1899).  Dunlop's  History  of  Prose 
fiction  (2  vols.,  revised  edition  by  Wilson,  Bohn,  1896) 
is  a  standard  work  of  reference.  F.  M.  Warren's 


APPENDIX  367 

History  of  the  Novel  Previous  to  the  Seventeenth  Cen- 
tury (Holt,  1895),  Jusserand's  English  Novel  in  the 
Time  of  Shakespeare  (London,  1890),  Saintsbury 's  The 
English  Novel  (N.  Y.,  1913),  Hopkins  and  Hughes's 
English  Novel  before  the  Nineteenth  Century  (Boston, 
1915),  Chandler's  Literature  of  Roguery  (2  vols.,  Bos- 
ton, 1907),  W.  L.  Phelps's  Advance  of  the  English 
Novel  (N.  Y.,  1916),  E.  A.  Baker's  Descriptive  Guide 
to  the  Best  Fiction  (N.  Y.,  1913),  the  Bibliographical 
Notesin  the  Appendix  to  Cross,  and  the  Bibliography  pref- 
aced to  the  first  volume  of  Wilson's  edition  of  Dunlop. 
d.  Prose  fiction  :  Philosophical  and  Critical.  Sug- 
gestive discussions  of  general  tendencies  in  modern  fic- 
tion are  found  in  F.  H.  Stoddard's  The  Evolution  of  the 
English  Novel  (Macmillan,  1899),  Sidney  Lanier's  The 
English  Novel  (Scribners,  revised  edition,  1897),  D.  G. 
Thompson's  Philosophy  of  Fiction  in  Literature  (Long- 
mans, 1890),  Zola's  Le  Roman  Experimental  (Eng. 
trans.,  Cassell,  N.  Y.),  Brunetiere's  Le  Roman  Na- 
turaliste  (Paris),  Spielhagen's  Beitrage  zur  Theorie  und 
Technik  des  Romans  (Berlin),  C.  T.  Winchester's  Prin- 
ciples of  Literary  Criticism  (Macmillan),  Howells's 
Criticism  and  Fiction  (Harpers),  F.  Marion  Crawford's 
The  Novel :  What  It  Is  (Macmillan),  Sir  Walter  Besant's 
lecture  on  "The  Art  of  Fiction"  (Cupples,Upham&Co., 
Boston,  1885) ,  Henry  James's  essay  in  rejoinder  on  "  The 
Art  of  Fiction  "  in  Partial  Portraits  (Macmillan),  R.  L. 
Stevenson's  "  A  Humble  Remonstrance  "  addressed  to 
Mr.  James  (reprinted  in  Memories  and  Portraits),  Bran- 
der  Matthews's  The  Historical  Novel  and  Other  Es- 
says and  Aspects  of  Fiction  (Scribners),  Paul  Bourget's 
"  Reflexions  sur  1'Art  du  Roman  "  in  Etudes  et  Por- 
traits. See  also  Whitcomb's  The  Study  of  a  Novel 


368  APPENDIX 

(Boston,  1905),  Home's  Technique  of  the  Novel 
(N.  Y.,  1908),  Maxcy's  Rhetorical  Principles  of 
Narration  (Boston,  1911),  W.  L.  Phelps's  Essays  on 
Modern  Novelists  (N.  Y.,  1910),  Wilson  Follett's  The 
Modern  Novel  (N.  Y.,  1918),  Clayton  Hamilton's  Man- 
ual of  the  Art  of  Fiction  (N.  Y.,  1918),  and  Stuart 
Sherman's  Contemporary  Literature  (N.  Y.,  1917). 

e.  Prose  Motion :  Special  Topics.  Articles  upon  the 
various  aspects  of  fiction  have  been  frequent  in  periodi- 
cal literature,  especially  since  1880.  For  these,  consult 
Poole's  Index  to  Periodical  Literature.  Excellent  com- 
ment upon  novels  and  novelists  is  to  be  found  in  reviews 
and  critical  articles  in  periodicals ;  if  Poole's  Index  is 
not  at  hand,  the  index  to  the  periodical  itself  will  often 
put  the  student  upon  the  track  of  helpful  material.  Biog- 
raphies of  the  great  novelists,  and  their  Notebooks  and 
Letters,  are  full  of  suggestive  comment  upon  their  art. 

The  footnotes  to  the  various  chapters  of  the  present 
work  give  occasional  references  to  books  bearing  par- 
ticularly upon  the  subject  of  each  chapter;  but  as  I  have 
wished  to  keep  the  text  as  free  as  possible  from  notes, 
I  will  add  here  a  few  suggestions  for  special  reading  in 
connection  with  some  of  the  main  topics  of  the  book. 

In  studying  chapter  iii.  for  instance,  it  will  be  well 
to  take  as  supplementary  reading  some  of  the  books 
already  mentioned  under  &,  and  especially  Gummere's 
Poetics  and  Watts's  article.  For  chapter  iii.,  note 
especially  Freytag,  Woodbridge,  Hamilton,  Archer, 
Matthews,  and  Baker. 

For  chapter  iv.,  note  Edward  Dowden's  Studies  in 
Literature,  J.  Wedgwood  on  "  The  Ethics  of  Liter- 
ature "  in  Contemporary  Review,  January,  1897,  and 
W.  J.  Stillman  on  "The  Revival  of  Art"  in  the  At' 
lantic,  vol.  Ixx. 


APPENDIX  369 

In  connection  with  chapters  v.,  vi.,  and  vii.,  the  most 
profitable  work  is  a  first-hand  study  of  the  practice  of 
various  novelists,  as  indicated  below  under  II.  Topics 
for  Study. 

For  chapter  viii.,  see  Ruskin's  "  Art  and  Morals  " 
in  Lectures  on  Art,  D.  G.  Thompson,  chapter  xiii., 
Lanier,  chapter  xii.,  Stoddard,  chapter  v.,  John  La 
Farge's  Considerations  on  Painting,  Lecture  II. 
(Macmillan),  Charles  F.  Johnson's  Elements  of  Liter- 
ary Criticism,  chapter  iv.  (Harpers),  and  S.  Sherman's 
Contemporary  Literature,  chapter  xi. 

In  connection  with  the  discussion  of  Realism  in  chap- 
ter ix.,  see  Howells's  Criticism  and  Fiction,  the  chapter 
on  Realism  in  W.  C.  Brownell's  French  Art  (Scribners), 
ValdeYs  Preface  to  Sister  St.  Sulpice  (Crowell),  Cross, 
chapters  v.  and  vi.,  and  Hamilton's  Manual,  chapter  ii. 

Romanticism  (chapter  x.)  is  discussed  in  many  recent 
volumes,  such  as  the  books  of  Beers  and  Phelps  referred 
to  on  p.  262.  See  also  Pater's  essay  in  the  Postscript  of 
Appreciations,  F.  H.  Hedge's  article  in  the  Atlantic,  vol. 
Ivii.,  T.  S.  Omond's  The  Triumph  of  Romance  (Scrib- 
ners), W.  P.  Ker's  Epic  and  Romance  (Macmillan), 
P.  E.  More's  Drift  of  Romanticism  (Boston,  1913),  and 
consult  the  Bibliography  furnished  by  Professor  Beers. 

For  chapter  xi.,  see  the  references  in  the  text  to 
Minto,  Clark,  Gardner,  Brewster,  and  Baldwin,  and  the 
critical  essays  of  James,  Stevenson,  Brunetiere,  Bourget, 
and  other  acute  contemporary  students  of  literary  form. 

For  chapter  xii.,  compare  Poe's  criticism  of  Haw- 
thorne in  Graham's  Magazine,  1842  (in  vol.  vii.  of  the 
Stedman-Woodberry  edition;  Stone  &Kimball),  Brander 
Matthews's  The  Philosophy  of  the  Short-Story  (Long- 
mans, 1901),  W.  M.  Hart's  Hawthorne  and  the  Short 


370  APPENDIX 

Story  (Berkeley,  Cal.,  1900),  J.  Berg  Esenwein's  Writ- 
ing the  Short  Story  (N.  Y.,  1908)  and  Studying  the 
Short  Story  (N.  Y.,  1912),  E.  M.  Albright's  The  Short 
Story  (N.  Y.,  1907),  W.  B.  Pitkin's  Art  and  Business 
of  Story  Writing  (N.  Y.,  1912),  H.  S.  Canby's  The 
Short  Story  in  English  (N.  Y.,  1909)  and  A  Study 
of  the  Short  Story  (N.  Y.,  1913),  Notestein  and  Dunn's 
The  Modern  Short  Story  (N.  Y.,  1914),  and  H.  T. 
Baker's  The  Contemporary  Short  Story  (Boston,  1916); 
Edward  J.  O'Brien  has  collected  in  annual  volumes  the 
best  short  stories  appearing  in  1915,  1916,  1917,  1918, 
and  1919  (Boston)  ;  see  Blanche  Colton  Williams's 
How  to  Study  'The  Best  Short  Stories'  (Boston,  1919). 

Collections  of  various  short  stories  are  now  numerous : 
see  Waite  and  Taylor's  Modern  Masterpieces  of  Short 
Prose  Fiction  (N  Y.,  1911),  Stuart  Sherman's  A 
Book  of  Short  Stories  (N.  Y.,  1916),  C.  S.  Baldwin's 
American  Short  Stories  (N.  Y.,  1904),  Sherwin  Cody's 
The  World's  Greatest  Short  Stories  (Chicago,  1902), 
Campbell  and  Rice's  A  Book  of  Narratives  (Boston, 
1917),  C.  L.  Maxcy's  Representative  Narratives  (Bos- 
ton, 1914). 

For  chapter  xiii.,  see  Walt  Whitman's  "  Democratic 
Vistas,"  Lowell's  address  on  "  Democracy,"  J.  A. 
Symonds's  "  Democratic  Literature  "  in  Essays  Specu- 
lative and  Suggestive,  W.  H.  Crawshaw's  Literary 
Interpretation  of  Life,  chapters  v.-vii.  (Macmillan), 
-C.  F.  Richardson's  American  Literature,  vol.  ii.  (Put- 
nam, 1889),  W.  C.  Bronson's  Short  History  of  Amer- 
ican Literature  (Heath,  1901),  Barrett  Wendell's  His- 
tory of  Literature  in  America  (Scribners,  1901),  and 
A.  G.  Newcomer's  American  Literature  (Scott,  Fores- 
111:111  &  Co.,  1901).  Compare  also  F.  L.  Puttee's  A  Hi» 


APPENDIX  371 

tory  of  American  Literature  since  1870  (N.  Y.,  1916), 
and  Bliss  Perry's  The  American  Mind  (Boston,  1912) 
and  The  Spirit  of  American  Literature  (N.  Y.,  1918). 

f.  Representative  English  Novels.  To  students  desir- 
ing to  understand  the  historical  development  of  English 
fiction  in  its  main  outlines,  the  following  list  of  typical 
productions  is  suggested:  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  Arcadia 
(1590),  Bunyan'sPiYgrrtra's  Progress  (1678-84),  Swift's 
Tale  of  a  Tub  (1704),  Defoe's   Captain   Singleton 
(1720) ,  Richardson's  Pamela  (1740) ,  Fielding's  A  mella 
(1751),  Goldsmith's  Vicar  of  Wakefield  (1766),  Ann 
Radcliffe's  Mysteries  of  Udolpho  (1794),  Jane  Austen's 
Pride  and  Prejudice  (1812),  Sir  Walter  Scott's  Ivanhoe 
(1820),  Charlotte  Bronte's  Jane  Eyre  (1847),  Thack- 
eray's Vanity  Fair  (1847-48),  Dickens's .David  Copper- 
field  (1849-50),  Trollope's  Barchester  Towers  (1857), 
George  Eliot's  Middlemarch  (1871-72),  Hardy's  Be- 
turn  of  the  Native  (1878),  Stevenson's  Treasure  Island 
(1883),  Meredith's  Diana  of  the  Crossways  (1884), 
Kipling's  Jungle-Book  (1894),  Conrad's  Nigger  of  the 
Narcissus  (1897),  Butler's  Way  of  All  Flesh  (1903), 
De  Morgan's   Joseph  Vance  (1906),    Bennett's    Old 
Wives'  Tale    (1908),  Wells's  Tono-Bungay  (1909), 
Galsworthy's  The  Patrician  (1911). 

g.  Representative  American  Novels.    The  following 
stories  are  fairly  representative  of  the  tendencies    of 
American  fiction:  Brockden  Brown's  Wieland  (1798), 
Irving' 's  Sketch  Book  (1819),  Cooper's  Last  of  the  Mohi- 
cans (1826),  Poe's  Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  Ara- 
besque (1839),  Hawthorne's  Scarlet  Letter  (1850),  Mrs. 
Stowe's  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  (1852),  Bret  Harte's  Luck 
of  Roaring  Camp  (1870),  Eggleston's  Hoosier  School- 
master (1871),  Clemens's  [Mark  Twain]  Tom  Sawyer 


372  APPENDIX 

(1876),  Henry  James's  The  American  (1877),  Howells's 
Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  (1885),  Cable's  Grandissimes 
(1880),  Harris's  Uncle  Remus  (1880),  Miss  Wilkins's 
Humble  Romance  (1887),  James  Lane  Allen's  Ken- 
tucky Cardinal  (1894),  Weir  Mitchell's  Hugh  Wynne 
(1897),  Owen  Wister's  The  Virginian  (1902),  Jack 
London's  Call  of  the  Wild  (1903),  Edith  Wharton's 
House  of  Mirth  (1905),  Winston  Churchill's  Coniston 
(1906),  O.  Henry's  Voice  of  the  City  (1908),  Margaret 
Deland's  Iron  Woman  (1911),  Dorothy  Canlield's  Bent 
Twig  (1915),  Booth  Tarkington's  The  Turmoil  (1915). 


II 


TOPICS   FOR   STUDY 

It  cannot  be  emphasized  too  often  that  the  aim  of 
this  Study  of  Prose  Fiction  is  to  help  students  to  use 
their  own  eyes  and  minds.  Topics  for  independent 
study  may  be  assigned  in  connection  with  almost  all 
the  chapters  in  the  book,  but  v.,  vi.,  and  vii.  are  par- 
ticularly well  adapted  for  this  kind  of  work.  For  in- 
stance, the  student  may  be  asked  to  write  a  brief  paper, 
as  the  result  of  independent  study  in  any  author,  of 
one  or  more  of  the  following  topics  :  — 

1.  Character-Studies.     (See  chapter  v.) 

A  character  embodying  but  one  quality  or  passion. 
A  complex  character  with  one  trait  in  predominance. 
A  complex  character  consisting  of  evenly  balanced 
opposing  forces.  A  character  involved  in  a  conscious 
moral  struggle,  successful  or  otherwise ;  in  an  uncon- 
scums  moral  struggle.  Deterioration,  with  or  without 
ft  struggle.  A  character  developing  under  prosperity ; 


APPENDIX  373 

adversity;  old  age;  influence  of  other  personalities ; 
of  religion,  art,  philosophy.  A  character  illustrating 
professional,  class,  or  national  traits.  A  character  ful- 
filling the  requirements  of  its  role  as  villain,  lover, 
heroine,  etc.  A  "  plot-ridden  "  character.  Character- 
contrasts  :  in  the  family ;  among  friends ;  in  wider 
relations.  Character-grouping .  as  regards  the  unify- 
ing principle,  subordination  of  parts,  place  in  the  book 
as  a  whole. 

2.  Studies  in  Plot.     (See  chapter  vi.) 

An  incident  as  revealing  character.  A  situation  as 
determining  character.  A  climax  in  its  relation  to 
the  theme.  A  catastrophe  as  poetic  justice ;  as  illus- 
trative of  the  individual  philosophy  of  the  writer ;  as 
unsatisfactory  to  the  reader.  Plot  complication  and 
resolution  as  dictated  by  character.  Accident  as  a 
complicating  force ;  a  resolving  force.  Fate  as  a  re- 
solving force.  Mystification  in  plot.  Anticlimax  in 
plot.  Plot  as  determined  by  the  characters.  Sustain- 
ing of  plot-interest.  A  perfect  plot.  A  sub-plot  as 
reflecting,  depending  upon,  or  artificially  joined  to  the 
main  plot.  A  plot  as  influenced  by  the  setting. 

3.  Studies  in  Setting.     (See  chapter  vii.) 

A  given  novel  as  illustrating  the  time  and  place  of 
its  setting ;  for  instance,  the  Egyptian,  Oriental,  Greek, 
Roman,  or  mediaeval  world.  The  setting  of  a  novel 
whose  scenes  are  laid  in  a  part  of  America  with  which 
you  are  personally  familiar ;  for  instance,  a  Tennessee, 
Virginia,  New  York,  New  England,  California  story. 
A  setting  making  artistic  use  of  one  of  the  great  occu- 
pations of  men :  as  politics,  war,  commerce,  manufao* 


374  APPENDIX 

turing,  farming,  mining,  travel,  student  life,  life  of  the 
unemployed  poor,  the  unemployed  rich.  A  setting  fur- 
nished by  institutions  or  ideas  prevalent  in  society :  as 
feudalism,  democracy,  socialism,  patriotism,  religion. 
The  sea,  the  mountains,  the  city,  the  village,  the  coun- 
try, as  setting  for  a  given  story.  A  landscape  setting 
which  harmonizes  with  the  characters  ;  contrasts  with 
the  characters ;  affects  the  incidents  ;  determines  the 
situations ;  gives  unity  to  the  book. 


Ill 

ORIGINAL   WORK  IN  CONSTRUCTION 

This  book  is  not  designed,  of  course,  to  give  training 
to  "  young  writers  "  in  practical  craftsmanship.  But  it 
is  often  a  stimulus  to  the  intelligent  and  sympathetic 
reading  of  fiction  to  attempt  for  one's  self  some  of  the 
practical  problems  with  which  novelists  are  constantly 
called  upon  to  deal.  For  class-room  work,  in  partic- 
ular, some  such  exercises  as  the  following  will  be  found 
interesting :  — 

1.  Read  the  opening  chapters  of  any  novel  until  you 
feel  sure  that  the  main  characters  are  all  introduced ; 
then  block  out  a  plot  which  shall  accord  with  your  view 
of  the  characters. 

2.  Read  until  the  complication  is  well  advanced ;  then 
block  out  the  remainder  of  the  plot. 

3.  Read  until  you  are  sure  the  catastrophe  is  immi- 
nent ;  then  sketch  in  detail  a  catastrophe  which  shall 
harmonize  with  the  foregoing  plot. 

4.  Construct  a  diagram  of  a  plot  involving  but  two 
or  tiiree  persons,  indicating  the  lines  of  complication, 
the  climax  or  turning  point,  and  the  denoQment. 


APPENDIX  375 

5.  Construct  a  similar  diagram,  indicating  the  situ- 
ations or  steps  by  which  the  action  advances  to  the  cli- 
max, and  thence  to  the  catastrophe. 

6.  Describe  a  room  or  a  house  so  that  each  detail 
shall  serve  to  indicate  the  character  of  the  occupant. 

7.  Write  a  conversation  which  indirectly  reveals  a 
character ;  describe  an  action  which  directly  reveals  a 
character. 

8.  Describe  an  important  situation,  sketching  briefly 
the  antecedent  and  subsequent  plot-movement. 

9.  Write  a  closing  chapter,  indicating  the  steps  by 
which  it  is  reached. 

10.  Describe  a  group  of  characters  suitable  for  a 
sub-plot,  with  the  briefest  indication  of  their  connec- 
tion with  the  main  plot. 


IV 


PRACTICE   IN   ANALYSIS 

In  studying  representative  novels,  whether  in  the 
class-room  or  by  one's  self,  it  is  well  to  read  with  pen- 
cil in  hand,  and  to  endeavor  to  sum  up,  as  clearly  as 
possible,  the  outline  of  the  story,  as  regards  plot,  char- 
acters, and  design.  A  simple  method  of  analysis  is 
here  given,  as  applied  to  Thackeray's  Vanity  Fair. 

Vanity  Fair. 

I.  Aim.   Where  did  Thackeray  get  his  title  ?   What 
light  is  thrown  by  the  title,  the  author's  preface,  and 
the  references  to  Vanity  Fair  throughout  the  novel, 
upon  the  aim  and  spirit  of  the  book  ?    In  other  words, 
what  is  Thackeray  trying  to  do  ? 

II.  (a)  Characters.   Fiction  exhibits  characters  in 


376  APPENDIX 

action,  by  means  of  narration  and  description.  Study 
the  opening  chapters  of  Vanity  Fair  with  the  aim  of 
getting  a  clear  conception  of  the  characters  there  pre- 
sented, before  the  complication  of  the  story  really 
begins. 

(b)  Plot.  After  doing  this  we  must  study  the  char- 
acters as  they  are  thrown  together,  influenced  by  one 
another,  and  developed  by  means  of  the  action.  It 
will  therefore  be  necessary,  before  examining  the  char- 
acters in  complication  with  one  another,  to  trace  the 
action,  or  plot,  of  the  novel.  The  plot  of  Vanity 
Fair  may,  for  convenience,  be  summarized  under  seven 
divisions. 

1.  Introduction.    (Chapters  1-11,  inclusive.)    The 
opening  six  chapters  are  concerned  with  Amelia,  Re- 
becca, the  Osbornes,  the  Sedleys,  and  Dobbin ;  the  next 
five  chapters  describe  the  Crawleys. 

2.  Development.  (12-26.)  This  division  treats  mainly 
of  Miss  Crawley,  Rebecca's  conquests,  the  Sedley  failure, 
Dobbin's  affection  for  Amelia,  and  George  Osborne's 
disinheritance. 

3.  The  Waterloo  Campaign.   (27-32.)    Here  is  the 
first  great  crisis  of  the  book.     Its  significance  in  the 
plot,  aside   from  George  Osborne's  death,  lies  in  its 
definite  revelations  of  character,  particularly  of  Joseph 
Sedley,  Dobbin,  and  Rebecca. 

4.  Struggles  and  Trials.  (33-46.)  This  division  cov- 
ers many  years  of  time.    Rebecca  is  successfully  fight- 
ing her  way  up  in  the  world,  and  Amelia  is  struggling 
vainly  against  poverty.     Chapter  39  is  important  as 
affecting   Rebecca's   position.     Note  that   chapter  37 
prepares  the  way  for  division  5.  just  as  chapter  43  is 
a  preparation  for  division  6. 


APPENDIX  377 

5.  Lord  Steyne.    (47-55.)    Here  is  the  second  and 
greatest  crisis  of  the  story.    It  contains  the  culmination 
of  Rebecca's  success,  and  the  catastrophe.    Chapter  50 
is  inserted  here  to  show  the  lowest  point  of  Amelia's 
fortunes. 

6.  Our  Friend  the  Major.    (56-61.)    The  re-intro- 
duction of  two  characters,  and  the  deaths  of  two  others, 
mark  the  turning  point  in  Amelia's  struggles,  just  as 
division  5  shows  the  turn  in  Rebecca's. 

7.  DenoHment.  Note  Rebecca's  degradation,  her  tem- 
porary influence  over  Amelia,  Dobbin's  departure,  re- 
call,  and  marriage,    the    end  of  Joseph  Sedley,   and 
Rebecca's  final  position  in  the  world. 

(c)  Setting.    Having  mastered  the  plot,  in  its  main 
and  subordinate  features,  it  will  be  well  to  review  defi- 
nitely the  circumstances  of  time  and  place  in  which 
the  action  is  laid ;  as  for  instance,  London  life  in  the 
period    1814—30,    Queen's    Crawley   under    Sir    Pitt, 
Brussels  in  1815,  the  Rawdon  Crawley  establishment 
in  Curzon  Street,  Gaunt  House,  or  the  town  of  Pum- 
pernickel.    Be  able   to   reproduce  this  historical  and 
local  setting  as  far  as  possible. 

(d)  Review  each  character,  first  by  itself,  then  in 
contrast  with  the  other    characters  with   which  it  is 
most  closely  grouped,  and  determine  lastly  what  is  the 
function  of  each  character  in  the  plot  as  a  whole.    Dis- 
tinguish carefully  between  the  characters  that  are  un- 
modified by  the  action  of  the  story,  as  Sir  Pitt  or  Mrs. 
O'Dowd,  and  those  whose  development  is  affected  by 
the  action,  as  Rawdon  Crawley  or  Rebecca. 

III.  Style.  If  we  understand  what  Thackeray  aimed 
to  do  in  writing  Vanity  Fair,  and  what  he  has  actu- 
ally done,  we  are  ready  to  criticise  his  manner  of  doing 


378  APPENDIX 

it,  that  is,  his  style.  Judging  from  Vanity  Fair  alone, 
what  inferences  can  you  draw  as  to  Thackeray's  (a)  cre- 
ation of  character,  (b)  invention  of  plot,  and  (c)  power 
of  narration  and  description ;  in  other  words,  his  gifts 
as  a  story-teller  ? 


REVIEW   QUESTIONS 

The  questions  to  be  asked  of  the  student,  in  review- 
ing the  works  of  fiction  selected  for  his  study,  will 
naturally  vary  widely.  The  queries  made  by  one 
teacher  will  not  suit  another  at  every  point.  But  I 
have  thought  it  worth  while  to  give  here  a  few  examples 
of  review  questions,  based  upon  such  different  material 
as  Scott's  Ivanhoe,  some  selected  short  stories  of  Poe 
and  Hawthorne,  and  George  Eliot's  Middlemarch. 
They  may  serve  as  hints  for  better  questions,  if  nothing 
more. 

a.  Ivanhoe.1 

I.  The  function  of  the  opening  chapter  of  a  novel 
is  ordinarily  to  give  a  picture  of  the  time  or  place  in 
which  the  story  is  to  move,  or  to  introduce  some  of  the 
minor  —  occasionally  the  leading  —  characters,  or  to 
strike  the  keynote  of  the  dramatic  action.  .  If  it  is 
prevailingly  narrative,  rather  than  descriptive,  it  usually 
deals  with  an  event  from  which  the  subsequent  events 
of  the  book  distinctly  take  their  origin,  or  an  event  or 
scene  which  must  be  explained  before  the  reader  can 
advance  into  the  story,  or  one  to  the  explanation  of 
which  the  entire  book  is  to  be  devoted.  Which  of 

1  Reprinted  by  permission  from  the  annotated  edition  of 
Ivanhoe,  edited  by  Bliss  Perry.  Longmans,  Green  &  Co.,  1807. 


APPENDIX  379 

these  various  purposes  does  the  first  chapter  of  Ivan* 
hoe  seem  to  you  to  fulfill  ?  Compare  it,  for  effective- 
ness, with  the  opening  chapter  of  Scott's  earliest  nov- 
els,  such  as  Waverley  and  Guy  Mannering ;  with 
some  of  his  later  novels,  such  as  Kenilworth  and 
Quentin  Durward.  Study  this  first  conversation  of 
the  jester  and  the  swineherd  as  an  example  of  charac- 
ter-contrast. 

II.  What  do  you  think  of  Scott's  habit  of  describ- 
ing in  minute  detail  the   personal  appearance  of   his 
characters,  before  he  has  made  them  reveal  their  na- 
ture by  speech  or  action  ?     Do  you  recall  any  other 
novels  in  which  Scott  has  depicted  a  worldly  minded 
ecclesiastic  ?     Compare  the  Templar  with  Marmion,  in 
external  traits  and  character,  as  far  as  this  chapter  re- 
veals the  Templar  to  us.     Are  the  references  to  Cedric 
and  Rowena,  designed  of  course  to  prepare  us  for  the 
following  chapter,  skillfully  introduced  ? 

III.  Compare  Cedric  with  other  fiery  old  people  in 
Scott's  novels,  as  Sir  Geoffrey  in  Peveril  of  the  Peak, 
Baron  Bradwardine  in  Waverley,  Lady  Bellenden  in 
Old  Mortality,  and  Sir  Henry  Lee  in  Woodstock.    No- 
tice how  his  talk  is  designed  to  heighten  the  reader's 
interest  in  the  coming  chapter. 

IV.  Note  the  opportunity  of  which  Scott  here  avails 
himself  to  describe  again  the  personal  appearance  of 
two  of   his  leading   characters.      Does    the  delay  in 
Rowena's  entrance  add  to  its  effectiveness  ?     Can  you 
give  a  clear  account,  from  memory,  of   her  features 
and  dress  ?     What  is  gained  by  having  the  entrance  of 
a  stranger  announced  at  the  very  end  of  the  chapter  ? 

V.  For  prototypes  of  Isaac  of  York,  read  Shake- 
speare's Merchant  of  Venice  and  Marlowe's  Jew  of 


380  APPENDIX 

Malta.  Can  you  find  other  strongly  drawn  Jewish 
figures  in  the  drama  or  in  fiction  ?  Note  that  the  quar- 
rel between  the  Templar  and  the  Palmer  furnishes  a 
sort  of  "  inciting  moment ; "  that  is,  an  action  which 
involves  and  leads  to  the  subsequent  plot-movement. 
Does  Rowena's  loyalty  to  the  reputation  of  Ivanhoe 
indicate  anything  as  to  the  relation  between  these  two 
characters  ?  What  interest  is  added  to  the  story  by 
the  fact  that  the  Palmer  appears  obviously  in  disguise  ? 
What  other  instances  of  disguise  can  you  recall  in 
Scott's  poems  and  novels  ? 

VI.  Note  how  the  close  of  this  chapter,  as  that  of 
the  preceding  one,  is  designed  to  stimulate  the  reader's 
interest  in  the  coming  tournament.     Review  the  first 
six  chapters,  all  of  which  centre  in   Rotherwood,  and 
see  if  you  have  the  characters   and  the  plot  (as  thus 
far  outlined)  clearly  in  mind.    Notice  carefully  whether 
the  main  characters  develop  as  the  story  progresses,  or 
are  left  stationary  as  regards  mental  and  moral  growth, 
as  is  usual  with  minor  characters  in  fiction.     In  a  ro- 
mance of  adventure,  is  there  much  gained  by  insisting 
upon  this  character-development  ? 

VII.  Can  you  draw  a  plan  of  the  lists  from  mem- 
ory of  the  description  just  given  ?     Note  the  points  of 
contrast  between  the  figures  of  Rebecca  and  Rowena 
at  their  first  presentation  to  the  reader. 

VIII.  In  connection  with  this  chapter  the  descrip- 
tion of  the    tournament  in  Chaucer's  Knight's  Tale 
may  be  read  with  advantage.     Notice  the  very  skillful 
fashion  in  which  Scott  leads  up  to  the  entrance  of  the 
Disinherited  Knight,  and  the  artistic  effect  of  "  the  soli- 
tary trumpet."     By  what  various  means  does  he  secure 
the  reader's  sympathy  for  the  unknown  champiou : 


APPENDIX  381 

IX.  What  is  the  value,  in  this  chapter,  of  the  fic- 
tion-writer's  privilege  of  explaining  what  is  passing  in 
the  minds  of  his  characters  ?     Can  you  criticise  the 
dialogue  in  any  respects  ? 

X.  Note  the  successive  stages  by  which  the  manly 
character  of  Gurth  is  revealed  to  the  reader ;  also  the 
effective  race-contrast  between  him  and  Isaac.     Is  any- 
thing gained  by  the  reference  to  the  Knight's  "  per- 
plexed ruminations  "  which  it  is  not  now  "  possible  to 
communicate  to  the  reader  "  ?     Can  you  point  out  any 
passages  where  Isaac's  talk  seems  too  rhetorical  to  be 
altogether  natural? 

XI.  The  forest  scene  delineated  in  chapter  xi.  fur- 
nishes a  sort  of  comic  interlude,  midway  in  the  eight 
chapters  that  centre  around  the  tournament  at  Ashby. 
What  are  the  devices   by  which  Scott  secures  our  re- 
spect for  Gurth  and  also  for  the  outlaws  ?     What  were 
the  elements  in  Scott's  nature,  as  far  as  you  understand 
it,  that  would  make  the  writing  of  a  chapter  like  this 
a  thoroughly  congenial  task  to  him  ? 

XII.  The   foregoing  chapter   is    one    of   the  most 
famous  in  English  fiction,  and  will  repay  the  closest 
study.     Note    that  the    unlooked-for   prowess   of   the 
Black  Knight,  and  the  discovery  of  the  identity  of  the 
Disinherited  Knight,  furnish  it  with  two  distinct  points 
of  climax.     In  the  first  of  these,  what  is  gained  by  the 
unexpectedness  of  the  incident  ?     Can  you  recall  simi- 
lar feats  of  arms,  as  described  by  other  novelists  ?     If 
you  find  Scott  superior  as  a  describer  of  such  things 
in  what  points  does  his  superiority  seem  to  you  to  lie  ? 
Does  the  dropping  of  Ivanhoe's  disguise  suggest  any> 
thing  to  you  about  the  danger  of  over-using  disguise  as 
an  element  of   interest  in  fiction?     Does   Scott  alto- 


382  APPENDIX 

gether  escape  the  danger  in  The  Talisman,  The  Abbot, 
and  elsewhere  ? 

XIII.  This  is  another  very  famous  chapter.     The 
effect  of  climax,  in  Locksley's  successive  shots,  is  in  its 
way  as  finely  artistic   as  Scott's  management  of   the 
tournament  in  chapter  xii.     Study  it  closely.     Similar 
feats  of  archery  are  described  in  Roger  Ascham's  Tox- 
ophilus  (1545)  and  Maurice  Thompson's  Witchery  of 
Archery,     A  mark  like  Locksley's,  and  an  equal  skill, 
is  credited  to  various  personages  (Robin  Hood,  Clym 
of  the  Cleugh,  William  of  Cloudesley)  in  old  English 
ballads.     For  a  discussion  of  these  Robin  Hood  bal- 
lads, see  Professor  F.  J.  Child's  English  and  Scottish 
Ballads,  vol.  v.     Do  you  remember  any  other  charac- 
ters depicted  by  Scott  who  have,  like  Hubert,  "  one  set 
speech  for  all  occasions  "  ?     (See  Woodstock,  Waver- 
ley,  etc.) 

XIV.  Note   how   this    chapter   furnishes    concrete 
illustration  of   those   differences   between   Saxon  and 
Norman  which   it  was   Scott's   purpose   to  emphasize 
wherever  possible.     Why  does  Cedric's  toast  to  Rich- 
ard increase  the  reader's  sympathy  for  both  of  these 
characters  ? 

XV.  This  is  a  good  example  of  an  intrigue  chapter, 
as  distinguished  from  one  devoted  to  the  exposition  of 
character  or  to  the  depiction  of  a  situation.     Its  pur- 
pose is  to  furnish  a  link  between  two  stages  of  the  nar- 
rative, and  explain  the  events  of  the  chapters  immedi- 
ately succeeding.     What  do  you  think  of  Waldemar's 
soliloquy,  as  compared  with  similar  ones  in  Richard 
III.,    Othello,   etc.,    where    the    villain    outlines    his 
scheme  ?     Is  a  soliloquy,  as  such,  better  suited  to  the 
drama  than  to  the  novel  ? 


APPENDIX  3S3 

XVI.  This  is  another  comic   interlude,  in    Scott's 
richest  vein,  and  is  the  first  of   five   forest   chapters 
which  separate  the  Rotherwood  and  Ashby  groups  of 
chapters  from  the  eleven  chapters  that  deal  with  the 
siege  of  Torquilstone.     For  the  role  played  by  Friar 
Tuck  in  the  Robin  Hood  ballads,  see  the  previous  re- 
ferences to  them.     Scott's  fondness  for  exhibiting  the 
human  —  not  to  say  worldly  —  side  of  his  clerical  fig- 
ures is  noticeable.     Can  you  recall  any  instances  of  it  ? 

XVII.  It  is  only  an  artificial  division,  of   course, 
which  separates  this  chapter  from  the  preceding  one. 
From  your  knowledge  of  Scott's  poetry,  do  you  con- 
sider the  songs  in  this  chapter  a  fair  representation  of 
his  skill  in  that  field  ? 

XVIII.  Does  the  language  put  into  Gurth's  mouth 
seem  to  you  invariably  in  keeping  with  the  character  ? 
Notice  the  relatively  slight  interest,  whether  of  plot  or 
characterization,  that  this  chapter  affords,  and  then  see 
how  the  interest  is  heightened,  from  point   to  point, 
during  the  next  two  chapters. 

XIX.  Note  the  ease  and  precision  of  the  character- 
drawing  here,  and  the  rapidity  of  the  forward  move- 
ment of  the  story. 

XX.  The  reader  should  observe  how  this  chapter, 
like  the  two  preceding  ones,  directs  the  attention  for- 
ward, rather  than  concentrates  it  upon  the  events  im- 
mediately before  the  mind.     See  also  the  suggestions 
at  the  close  of  the  last  chapter. 

XXI.  This  is  the  first  of   the   eleven   consecutive 
chapters  that  deal  with   the    Castle   of   Torquilstone. 
Observe  how  careful  Scott  is  to  explain  the  technical 
words  he  uses  in  describing  it.     Have  you  a  sufficiently 
distinct  picture  of  the  castle  in  your  mind  to  enable 


384 


APPENDIX 


you  to  draw  a  rough  sketch  of  its  main  features  ?  Try 
to  do  so.  Compare  Torquilstone  with  similar  castles 
in  Scott's  other  novels  (The  Betrothed,  Old  Mortality, 
Quentin  Durward,  etc.).  Mark  the  sharp  character- 
contrast  between  Cedric  and  Athelstane.  Do  you  think 
the  author's  humorous  insistence  upon  the  latter's  un- 
failing gluttony  is  overdone  ?  What  device,  frequent 
in  romantic  fiction,  is  used  just  at  the  close  of  the  chap- 
ter to  carry  forward  the  reader's  curiosity  ? 

XXII.  Is  Scott's  portrayal  of  Front-de-Bceuf  as  a 
"  heavy  villain  "  open  to  criticism  at  any  point  ?     For 
the  mingling  of  paternal  affection  and  avarice  in  Isaac's 
nature,  compare  Marlowe's  Jew  of  Malta  and  Shake- 
speare's Merchant  of  Venice. 

XXIII.  The  scene  between  Rowena  and  De  Bracy 
is  finely  conceived,  and  affords  an  artistic  contrast  to 
the   still  more  admirable  scene  between  Rebecca  and 
the  Templar  in  the  succeeding  chapter.     What  quali- 
ties possessed  by  Rowena  fit  her  to  be  the  heroine  of  a 
romantic  tale  ?     Has  she  shown  any  defects,  as  a  typi- 
cal heroine,  or  as  a  woman,  up  to  this  point  ?     Are 
the   last    four    paragraphs  —  the    inserted    ones  —  in 
keeping  with  the  general  tone  of  the  story  ?     Do  you 
think  the  writer  of  a  historical  novel  ought  to  bring 
forward  actual  proofs  of  the  manners  and  facts  which 
he  uses  in  his  narrative  ? 

XXIV.  Notice  the  similarity  in  the  construction  of 
the  last  four  chapters.     In  each  a  scene  involving  two 
persons  (Cedric  and  Athelstane,  Isaac  and  Front-de- 
Boeuf,  Rowena  and  De  Bracy,  Rebecca  and  the  Tem- 
plar) is  interrupted  by  the  "  blowing  of  the  horn  "  out- 
side the  castle.     Do  you  think  that  this  scheme  of 
following  the  fortunes  of  the  different  groups  up  to  an 


APPENDIX  385 

incident  that  affects  them  all  could  be  bettered  ?  Why 
is  the  scene  between  Rebecca  and  the  Templar  the  climax 
of  the  four  ?  By  what  means  is  the  contrast  in  char- 
acter between  Rebecca  and  Rowena  most  effectively 
shown  ?  In  the  Templar's  story  of  his  own  life,  do  you 
find  any  traces  of  the  conventional  Byronic  hero  ? 

XXV.  What  details  in  this  chapter  seem  to  you  most 
characteristic  of  Scott  ?     What  are  some  of  the  differ- 
ences between  conversation  in  novels  and  conversation 
in  actual  life  ? 

XXVI.  In   this  chapter,  as  in  the  preceding  one, 
observe  what  is  gained  by  shifting  the  emphasis  so  that 
it  falls,  for  a  while,  upon  the  minor  characters.     Is 
Scott  altogether  consistent  in  the  motives  he  assigns  for 
Wamba's  conduct  ?     What  means  are  used  to  heighten 
our  respect  for  the  moral  qualities  of  Wamba,  Cedric, 
and  Athelstane,  in   turn  ?     Notice   how  the  disguises 
furnish  a  new  set  of  interests  and  serve  as  an  interlude 
between  the  more  dramatic  portions  of  the  action. 

XXVII.  May  this    chapter  fairly  be  criticised  for 
its  lack  of  unity  ?     Is  the  delineation  of  Ulrica,  and  the 
story  she  tells,  unnatural  at  any  points  ?     Compare  her 
manner  of  talk  with  that  of  Mrs.  Macgregor  in  Rob 
Roy  and  of  Meg  Merrilies  in  Ghty  Mannering.     What 
speech  of  De  Bracy,  in  this  chapter,  is  most  character- 
istic of  him?     In  the  discussion  about  the  ransoms, 
study  carefully  the  motives  of  each  speaker.     Do  you 
think  the  haste  and  confusion  of  the  latter  part  of  the 
chapter  enhance  the  effect  of  excitement  and  expecta- 
tion ? 

XXVIII.  Do  you  consider  the  opening  sentence  of 
this  chapter  a  fortunate  one  ?     Can  you  recall  instances, 
in  the  chapter,  of  purely  conventional  epithets,  like  Re- 


386  APPENDIX 

becca's  "  slender  "  fingers  and  "  ruby  "  lips  ?  Of  sen- 
tences arranged  in  reverse  order  to  give  an  archaic  ef- 
fect ?  Of  sentences  recalling  the  rhythm  of  the  Scrip- 
tures, or  that  of  blank  verse  ?  Note  that  De  Bracy's 
"  middle  course  between  good  and  evil "  is  one  that 
Scott  frequently  forces  upon  his  heroes.  An  interest- 
ing parallel  to  Rebecca's  conversation  about  Jews  and 
Christians  will  be  found  in  Lessing's  Nathan  der  Weise. 

XXIX.  This  chapter  is  one  of  the  most  famous  in 
the  whole  range  of  English  fiction,  and  is  an  admirable 
example  of  Scott's  power  of  vigorous,  impassioned  de- 
scription.    The  device  of  making  the  observer  of  the 
action  relate  it  to  another,  who  is  unable  to  witness  it, 
is  at  least  as  old  as  the  story  of  Bluebeard.     It  has  been 
skillfully  employed  in  Rossetti's  Sister  Helen,  Tenny- 
son's Harold  (act  v.),  and  elsewhere. 

XXX.  In  this  death  scene,  and  in  similar  passages 
elsewhere  in  Scott's  novels,  do  you  think  the  author 
lays  himself  open  to  the  charge  of  confounding  tragedy 
with  melodrama? 

XXXI.  This  admirable  chapter,  the  final  one  of  the 
eleven  devoted  to  the  siege  of  Torquilstone,  contains  obvi- 
ously one  of  the  main  climaxes  of  the  book.     It  will  be 
well  for  the  reader  to  review  the  characters  of  the  story 
and  the  general  plot-movement  up  to  this  point,  with  the 
aim  of  seeing  exactly  what  has  been  accomplished  and 
what  still  remains  to  be  done  by  the  author  in  satisfying 
the  expectations  that  have  been  raised.     The  account  of 
the  capture  of  the  castle  will  be  most  enjoyed  by  those 
readers  who  are  able  to  form  an  exact  picture  of  the 
building  and  its  outworks.     Compare  the  features  of 
this  siege  with  similar  ones  described  in  Old  Mortality, 
Quentin  Durward,  Woodstock,  Peveril  of  tlie  Peak, 


APPENDIX  387 

and  elsewhere.  Is  the  manner  of  De  Eracy's  submis- 
sion an  adequate  indication  of  the  real  personality  of 
the  Black  Knight?  Observe  how  Scott  secures  our 
sympathy  for  all  of  the  personages  in  this  chapter  by 
assigning  to  each  of  them  some  brave  or  chivalrous 
action. 

XXXII.  The  few  sentences  of  landscape  depiction, 
at  the  beginning  of  the  chapter,  may  suggest  a  compari- 
son between  Scott's  novels  and  his  poems  as  regards 
the  extent  to  which  he  avails  himself,  in  the  two  arts, 
of   landscape   effects.     Distinguish  carefully  chapters 
like  the  preceding,  designed  to  give  a  picture  of  char- 
acters in  a  certain  mood,  from  chapters  containing  sit- 
uations or  events  that  directly  advance  the  plot.     The 
freedom  with  which  Scott  makes  his  personages  jest 
upon  sacred  subjects  was  sharply  criticised  by  one  re- 
viewer at  the  time  of  Ivanhoe's  first  appearance.     Do 
you  think  this  chapter,  and  the  following  one,  are  really 
at  fault  in  this  respect  ? 

XXXIII.  In  this  continuation  of  the  comic  interlude, 
begun  in  the  preceding  chapter,  note  the  ease  and  skill 
with  which  national  and  professional  types  of  character 
are  contrasted  with  each  other.     The  humorous  situa- 
tion involved  in  making  Isaac  and  the  Prior  fix  each 
other's  ransom  is  thoroughly  characteristic  of  Scott. 
Mark  his  power  of  shifting  sympathy  from  one  side  to 
the  other,  and  of  changing  the  tone  of  description  to- 
ward the  end  of  the  chapter,  as  more  serious  interests 
again  assert  their  claims  upon  the  reader. 

XXXIV.  In  the  delineation  of  well  known  historical 
figures,  like  Richard  and  John,  how  far  do  you  think 
the  novelist  is  forced  to  adopt  the  popular  conception  of 
(he  figure  ?    Is  Scott's  depiction  of  the  natural  treachery 


388  APPENDIX 

of  John  in  accordance  with  all  we  know  of  that  prince  f 
Compare  Shakespeare's  King  John.  In  an  historical 
novel,  is  it  better  that  some  great  historical  personage 
should  he  the  leading  figure,  or  may  that  place  be  bet- 
ter filled  by  a  fictitious  character  ?  Study  Scott's  vary- 
ing methods  in  The  Abbot,  The  Talisman,  Kenilworth, 
Quentin  Durward,  Woodstock,  and  elsewhere. 

XXXV.  This  is  the  first  of  a  group  of  chapters,  the 
scene  of  which  is  laid  at  Templestowe.  What  are  some 
of  the  obvious  advantages  of  a  change  of  scene  in  a 
story  of  romantic  adventure  ?  Observe  how  the  reader's 
attention,  in  this  closing  period  of  the  story,  is  more 
and  more  directed  toward  Rebecca.  In  the  delinea- 
tion of  the  Grand  Master,  notice  how  natural  it  is  for 
Scott  to  make  his  ecclesiastics  either  worldlings  or 
fanatics.  The  same  thing  is  to  be  observed  in  Peveril 
of  the  Peak,  Woodstock,  Old  Mortality,  and  elsewhere. 

XXXVI..  In  this  finely  dramatic  situation,  note  the 
precision  of  the  character-drawing.  The  "  scrap  of  pa- 
per "  mentioned  in  the  closing  paragraph  is  one  of  the 
link-devices  used  to  hold  this  group  of  chapters  together. 
Do  you  find  Scott  superior  or  inferior  to  other  novelists 
of  high  rank  in  the  art  of  calculating  his  effects  and  giv- 
ing the  reader  hints  of  them  a  long  time  in  advance  ? 
Does  what  you  know  of  Scott's  method  of  composition 
throw  any  light  upon  this  question  ? 

XXXVII.  It  was  possibly  Scott's  own  legal  training 
that  made  him  delight  in  introducing  trials  into  hi 
works  of  fiction.  Particularly  interesting  analogies  tc 
the  one  described  in  this  chapter  may  be  found  in  the 
account  of  the  "  Vehmegericht "  in  Anne  of  Geier stein 
and  in  canto  ii.  of  Marmion.  Rebecca's  demand  for  a 
champion  gives  the  artistic  "  motive  "  for  the  remain* 


APPENDIX  389 

ing  chapters  of  the  story.  Do  you  think  any  irony  is 
intended  in  her  last  speech  about  England,  "  the  hospi- 
table, the  generous,  the  free  "  ? 

XXXVIII.  Study  the  effective  contrast  between  the 
mental  processes  of  the  cultivated  Orientals  and  the  un- 
lettered English  messenger. 

XXXIX.  Note  what  is  called  "  tragic   elevation " 
in  the  dialogue,  i.  e.  a  language  removed,  sublimated, 
from  the  speech  of   daily  life.     Distinguish  between 
scenes  that  test  the  moral  fibre  of  a  person  when  he  is 
quite  unconscious  of  any  struggle   (see  almost  every 
chapter  of    Scott)  and  scenes  like  the  foregoing,  em- 
bodying a  conscious  moral  or  spiritual  struggle,  which 
are  comparatively  rare  in  Scott.     Contrast  him,  in  this 
regard,  with  George  Eliot  and  Hawthorne. 

XL.  Note,  as  before,  how  the  forest  scene  gives  re- 
lief from  the  high  tension  of  the  previous  chapter. 
The  variety  and  unforced  humor  and  dramatic  situa- 
tions in  this  chapter  can  scarcely  be  praised  too  highly. 
Review  the  successive  hints  that  have  been  given  as  to 
the  real  personality  of  the  Black  Knight  and  Locksley. 
Do  they  enhance  the  reader's  pleasure  in  the  scene  when 
the  disguises  are  finally  thrown  off  ?  Observe  the  skill 
with  which  the  Robin  Hood  legends  and  the  actual  traits 
of  Richard  I.  have  here  been  mingled. 

XLI.  In  Scott's  analysis  of  Richard's  nature,  and 
especially  in  the  words  "  the  brilliant  but  useless  char- 
acter of  a  knight  of  romance,"  observe  how  his  shrewd 
Scotch  judgment  offsets  his  sentiment.  It  is  in  this 
capacity  for  alternate  sympathy  with  both  sides  of  a 
question  that  much  of  his  power  as  a  story-teller  lies. 
See  Julia  Wedgwood's  "  Ethics  and  Literature  "  in  the 
Contemporary  Review,  January,  1897. 


390  APPENDIX 

XLII.  Scott's  note  on  the  raising  of  Athelstane  is 
the  best  possible  comment  upon  his  happy-go-lucky 
methods  in  arranging  his  plot.  He  said  himself  that 
he  always  "  pushed  for  the  pleasantest  road  towards 
the  end  of  a  story."  As  a  whole,  do  you  think  he  in- 
sists too  much  upon  the  gluttonous  side  of  Athelstane's 
nature  for  even  the  best  comic  effect  ? 

XLIII.  For  a  parallel  to  the  by-play  among  the 
minor  characters,  at  the  outset  of  the  chapter,  recall 
the  scene  between  Isaac  and  Wamba  at  the  beginning 
of  the  tournament  (chapter  vii.).  The  Templar's  last 
proposition  to  Rebecca  provides  the  "  moment  of  final 
suspense  "  which  often  occurs  in  fiction  and  the  drama. 
In  the  Templar's  death,  notice  how  Scott  gives  a  natu- 
ral cause  for  an  event  which  is  designed  to  impress  us, 
and  does  impress  us,  as  an  act  of  divine  justice.  Observe 
how  simply,  and  yet  how  seriously  and  adequately, 
Scott  deals  with  this  great  theme  of  the  judgment  of 
God. 

XLIV.  The  withdrawal  of  the  Templars  furnishes 
one  of  the  most  purely  picturesque  incidents  in  the 
book.  Do  you  think  the  final  disposition  of  the  char- 
acters exhibits  poetic  justice?  Reflect  carefully  upon 
the  last  paragraph  of  Scott's  Introduction,  which  bears 
upon  this  question.  It  is  one  of  the  noblest  passages  in 
all  of  Scott's  works,  and  it  was  written  at  a  time  when 
he  had  had  full  experience  of  both  good  and  evil  fortune. 

b.  Hawthorne. 

[Review  questions  based  upon  the  eight  tales  reprinted  in  the 
Little  Masterpieces  Series,  Doubleday  &  Page,  N.  Y.] 

Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment.  How  would  you  char 
acterize  Hawthorne's  humor,  as  here  exhibited  ? 


APPENDIX  391 


Compare  this  tale  with  any  other  writings  of 
thome  in  which  the  same  theme  appears. 

Do  Dr.  Heidegger's  friends  impress  you  as  individ- 
uals or  as  types  ?  Is  the  final  paragraph  effective  ? 

The  Birthmark.  Explain  how  the  opening  para- 
graph establishes  the  theme  of  the  story. 

Do  you  find  evidence  here  of  a  morbid  imagination  ? 
Is  there  anything  fantastic  or  exaggerated  in  the  devel- 
opment of  the  plot  or  the  characters  ? 

What  do  you  think  of  Aylmer  as  a  representative  of 
the  scientific  spirit  ? 

What  do  you  conceive  to  be  the  "  moral  "  of  the 
story  ? 

Ethan  Brand.  This  should  be  compared  carefully 
with  those  portions  of  the  American  Note-Books  that 
describe  Hawthorne's  sojourn  in  the  Berkshire  Hills  in 
1838. 

Can  you  name  any  modern  stories  or  poems  in  which 
the  same  conception  of  the  Unpardonable  Sin  is  found  ? 

What  are  the  most  effective  details  in  the  setting  of 
the  story  ? 

What  are  the  most  effective  contrasts  either  in  char- 
acter or  between  scenery  and  character? 

In  what  sense  is  Ethan  Brand  a  fragment  ?  Sug- 
gest a  plan  for  expanding  it  into  a  more  complete  whole. 

Wakeficld.  What  are  the  most  skillful  touches  in  the 
delineation  of  Mr.  Wakefield's  character? 

Comment  upon  the  union  of  fancy  and  imagination 
in  this  tale. 

Do  you  detect  any  irony  in  it  ?  What  are  its  chief 
points  of  suggestion  to  you  ? 

Droume's  Wooden  Image.  Comment  upon  the  purely 
poetical  elements  of  the  theme. 


392  APPENDIX 

Can  you  describe  in  detail  the  carven  figure-head  ? 

Is  the  clearing  up  of  the  mystery  at  the  close  alto- 
gether satisfactory  to  the  reader? 

What  part  of  the  tale  would  give  a  story-teller  the 
greatest  difficulty  in  your  opinion  ? 

The  Ambitious  Guest.  Point  out  the  sentences,  here 
and  there  in  the  story,  that  most  plainly  foreshadow  the 
catastrophe. 

By  what  means  has  the  author  secured  unity  of  effect  ? 

Comment  upon  this  tale  as  an  example  of  "  local 
color  "  in  fiction. 

What  seems  to  you  its  most  admirable  feature  either 
in  idea  or  workmanship  ? 

The  Great  Stone  Face.  Does  Hawthorne  ever  seem 
to  you  to  err  on  the  side  of  too  great  simplicity,  as  when 
we  say  that  an  idea  is  "  childish  "  rather  than  "  child- 
like "  ? 

What  do  you  consider  the  most  memorable  sentence 
in  the  story  ? 

Is  its  ethical  teaching  too  sharply  forced  upon  the 
reader  ? 

The  Gray  Champion.  What  points  of  excellence 
in  narrative  does  this  tale  exhibit  ? 

How  can  the  writer  of  such  a  sketch  show  imagina- 
tive power  while  keeping  close  to  historical  fact  ? 

Is  anything  gained  by  hinting,  rather  than  actually 
declaring,  that  the  Gray  Champion  was  one  of  the 
Regicides  ? 

General  Questions. 

Which  of  these  stories  do  you  like  or  admire  most,  and 
why  ? 

What  are  the  most  obvious  characteristics  of  Haw* 
thorne's  style,  as  here  exemplified  ? 


APPENDIX  393 

Taking  these  tales  as  fairly  representative,  do  you 
find  Hawthorne's  imagination  too  sombre  ? 

Do  you  notice  anything  "  bloodless  "  or  "  unsympa- 
thetic "  or  "  dilettanteish  "  in  his  personality  as  a  writer  ? 

If  you  find  these  stories  excelling  most  contemporary 
work  in  the  same  field,  where  does  Hawthorne's  superi- 
ority seem  to  lie  ? 

c.  Poe. 

[Review  questions  based  upon  the  seven  tales  reprinted  in 
the  Little  Masterpieces  Series.  Doubleday  &  Page,  N.  Y.] 

Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher*  How  does  the  open- 
ing sentence  strike  the  key  of  the  story  ? 

As  the  story  advances,  what  details  are  most  success- 
ful in  securing  a  cumulative  effect  ? 

In  what  passages  are  the  moods  and  forme  of  nature 
used  to  harmonize  with  human  emotions  ? 

Do  you  detect  any  intrusion  of  purely  rhetorical  de- 
vices? 

Ligeia.  Trace  the  correspondence  in  physical  fea- 
tures between  the  Lady  Ligeia  and  Robert  Usher  and 
the  portraits  of  Poe  himself. 

Find  instances  of  description  by  suggestion  merely. 

Do  the  mythological  allusions  add  anything  to  the 
effect  ? 

Distinguish  between  the  sensational  and  the  emo- 
tional impressions  produced  by  the  closing  paragraphs 
of  the  story. 

Do  you  find  ground  for  Foe's  opinion  that  this  was 
the  finest  of  all  his  tales  ? 

The  Cask  of  Amontillado.  Point  out  the  rhetorical 
means  by  which  brevity  and  rapidity  of  movement  are 
here  secured.  What  is  gained  by  the  apparent  reti- 
cence of  the  narrator  ? 


394  APPENDIX 

How  do  you  think  his  tone  of  cold  hatred  for  Mon- 
tresor  is  best  exhibited  ? 

The  Assignation.  Do  you  find  any  trace  here  of 
the  Byronic  hero  ? 

How  would  you  characterize  Poe's  taste  as  shown  by 
the  interior  decoration  of  his  houses  ?  Point  out  in- 
stances of  Poe's  fondness  for  allusions  to  far-away  and 
mysterious  places  and  objects. 

Do  you  find  any  use  of  symbolism  as  distinguished 
from  sensuous  imagery  ? 

What  is  gained  by  keeping  the  secret  of  the  plot 
until  the  final  sentence  ? 

MS.  found  in  a  Bottle.  Why  is  the  opening  page 
characteristic  of  Poe  ? 

What  are  the  most  effective  details  in  the  portrayal 
of  the  storm  ? 

Study  the  sequence  of  the  details  that  are  designed 
to  indicate  the  antiquity  of  the  doomed  ship. 

What  elements  of  the  story  seem  to  you  most  genu- 
inely romantic  ? 

The  Black  Cat.  What  are  the  dangers  of  an  open- 
ing paragraph  like  the  one  here  ? 

What  faults  of  taste  do  you  discover  ?  Is  too  much 
stress  laid  upon  physical  rather  than  spiritual  horrors  ? 

In  what  respects,  if  any,  do  you  find  this  tale  supe- 
rior to  the  ordinary  "  penny  dreadful  "  upon  a  similar 
theme  ? 

The  Gold-Bug.  What  traces  of  Defoe's  influence 
are  manifest  here  ? 

What  are  the  elements  that  make  this  story  more 
cheerful  than  the  others  in  the  volume  ? 

In  the  main  plan  of  the  story,  what  do  yon  think 
is  gained  by  first  showing  the  success  of  Legrand's 


APPENDIX  395 

scheme,  and  then  analyzing  and  explaining  the  method 
he  followed  ? 

General  Questions. 

Which  of  these  tales  do  you  admire  most,  and  why  ? 

Do  you  see  evidence  of  Poe's  lack  of  power  to  por- 
tray objectively  a  variety  of  types  and  situations  ? 

Do  you  think  there  is  justification  for  the  remark 
that  "  Poe  has  a  manner  rather  than  a  style  "  ? 

Do  you  find  Poe  deficient  in  humor,  judging  from 
these  tales  alone  ? 

What  do  you  think  of  his  skill  in  fixing  the  tone  or 
atmosphere  of  each  tale  ? 

How  is  Poe's  gift  of  imagination  most  clearly 
shown  ? 

Summarize  briefly  your  own  personal  opinion  of 
Poe's  artistic  weakness  and  strength. 

d.  Review  questions  upon  George  Eliot's  Mid- 
dlemarch. 

How  does  the  preface  indicate  the  keynote  of  the 
book  ?  Determine  to  what  extent  the  words  first  spoken 
by  each  character  are  intended  to  be  typical  of  the 
speaker.  In  what  ways  are  the  characters  of  Dorothea 
and  Celia  most  effectively  contrasted  ?  How  do  Do- 
rothea's strongest  and  weakest  traits  unite  with  each 
other  to  help  forward  the  action  of  the  story  ?  Indi- 
cate the  successive  steps  by  which  Dorothea's  disillusion 
with  regard  to  her  husband  was  completed.  Why  do 
most  of  the  attractive  descriptions  of  Dorothea's  per- 
sonal appearance  come  after  her  marriage  rather  than 
before  it  ?  What  are  the  commonplace  traits  in  Lyd- 
gate?  How  far  did  he  deserve  his  unpopularity  in 


396  APPENDIX 

Middlemarch  ?  In  the  delineation  of  his  professional 
ambitions  and  struggles,  how  much  is  due  to  the  time 
in  which  the  book  is  laid,  and  how  much  would  always 
be  true  of  a  young  doctor  with  similar  aspirations  ? 
What  are  the  forces  that  made  him  slacken  his  resolu- 
tion ?  Why  was  his  casting  a  ballot  for  Tike  a  crisis 
in  his  career  ?  At  what  point  after  their  marriage  did 
Lydgate  definitely  surrender  to  the  superior  will  power 
of  Rosamond  ?  Do  you  remember  any  other  instances, 
in  George  Eliot's  novels,  of  people  crippling  the  lives 
of  others  by  their  egoism  ?  Was  Lydgate  justified  in 
taking  money  from  Bulstrode  ?  What  were  the  causes 
of  Mr.  Casaubon's  failure  as  a  scholar  ?  Does  your 
discovery  of  the  serious  nature  of  his  illness  alter  es- 
sentially your  attitude  toward  him?  What  are  the 
characteristic  qualities  of  Mr.  Brooke's  conversation  ? 
Describe  Will  Ladislaw's  personal  appearance.  Ex- 
plain his  liking  for  Rosamond's  society.  Describe  Mr. 
Bulstrode's  voice.  What  hints  are  given  of  his  hypo- 
crisy before  we  are  actually  told  of  it  ?  Compare  him 
with  any  other  hypocrites  in  George  Eliot's  books. 
Was  Mary  Garth  right  in  refusing  old  Featherstone's 
last  request  ?  Is  the  character  of  Featherstone  over- 
done ?  Does  Rosamond's  alleged  cleverness  appear  in 
her  conversation  ?  What  trait  in  Rosamond  is  most 
irritating  to  the  reader  ?  What  are  the  attractive  fea- 
tures of  Farebrother's  love  for  Mary  Garth  ?  What 
are  Farebrother's  limitations,  as  George  Eliot  seems 
to  have  conceived  them  ?  What  is  the  process  by 
which  Fred  Vincy  attains  to  strength  of  character? 
Are  there  any  characters  in  the  book  whose  talk  re- 
minds you  of  people  in  Dickens  ?  Instance  the  sta- 
tionary, an  compared  with  the  developing  characters. 


APPENDIX  397 

What  group  of  characters  do  you  consider  most  suc- 
cessful ? 

Determine  to  what  extent  the  first  action  of  each 
character  is  intended  to  be  typical  of  the  person.  Give 
examples  of  very  slight  incidents  which  are  nevertheless 
significant  "  moments  "  in  the  story.  What  situations 
do  you  think  the  strongest  ?  Why  ?  Can  you  recall 
any  situations  that  are  artistically  ineffective?  Do 
you  think  that  the  Dorothea-Casaubon  plot  is  on  the 
whole  skillfully  linked  with  the  Lydgate-Rosamond 
plot  ?  In  what  ways  do  any  of  the  sub-plots  affect  the 
main  plot  ?  Is  there  justification  for  the  author's  own 
fear  that  in  Middlemarch  she  had  too  much  matter  — 
too  many  "  moment!  "  ?  Do  the  plot-requirements  of  the 
story  force  any  of  the  personages  into  actions  that  seem 
out  of  character  ?  Do  you  think  George  Eliot  success- 
ful in  handling  the  Raffles  episode  ?  In  general,  do 
you  think  her  gifts  and  training  were  such  as  to  fit  her 
for  managing  mystery  as  an  element  in  plot  ?  Is  she 
apparently  interested  in  action  for  its  own  sake  ?  Does 
the  plot  of  Middlemarch,  in  any  of  its  details  or  as  a 
whole,  seem  to  you  to  fail  either  in  intrinsic  power  or 
in  its  ability  to  hold  the  reader's  attention  ? 

In  the  setting  of  Middlemarch,  what  are  the  traces 
of  the  impressions  made  by  the  author's  own  early 
life  ?  Why  is  there  so  little  landscape  depiction,  when 
compared  with  some  of  her  other  books  ?  Give  in- 
stances, however,  of  landscape  in  harmony  with  the 
mood  of  a  character ;  in  contrast  with  the  mood.  What 
impression  do  you  receive  of  George  Eliot's  ideas  about 
the  influence  of  village  life  upon  character  ?  Of  pro- 
vincial life  in  general?  Of  the  power  of  environment 
in  determining  character  ?  What  pictures  of  Middle- 


398  APPENDIX 

march  life  do  you  most  definitely  recall,  as  you  look 
backward  to  the  book  ?  Can  you  think  of  anything  in 
this  novel  which  is  out  of  keeping  with  its  general 
atmosphere  ? 

How  far  are  you  reminded  of  George  Eliot's  own 
personality  in  the  account  of  Dorothea's  girlhood? 
Does  Dorothea's  theory  of  life,  as  she  gives  expression 
to  it  in  the  latter  part  of  the  story,  correspond  with 
what  we  know  of  George  Eliot  herself?  How  far 
does  she  sympathize  with  Mr.  Casaubon's  scholarly 
labors  ?  Does  she  betray  sympathy  or  antipathy  for 
any  particular  character  or  groups  of  characters,  or 
would  you  say  that  her  delineation  was  perfectly  im- 
partial ?  What  evidence  is  there  in  this  book  of  her 
own  revolt  against  evangelicalism  ?  Comparing  Mid- 
dlemarch  with  her  earlier  novels,  are  you  conscious  of 
any  change  in  her  philosophical  attitude  ?  Does  the 
book  show  any  evidence  of  the  author's  artistic  instinct 
and  purely  scientific  interest  working  at  cross  purposes  ? 
In  what  features  of  the  book  is  George  Eliot's  power 
of  imagination  most  clearly  manifested  ?  Comparing 
it  with  her  earlier  novels,  do  you  discover  any  evidence 
of  flagging  energy  ? 

Considering  the  book  from  the  standpoint  of  style, 
do  you  find  anything  awkward  or  cumbersome  in  it? 
Why  does  the  theme  need,  for  its  adequate  treatment, 
a  large  canvas?  Are  any  of  the  minor  characters 
drawn  with  too  much  detail  ?  Is  there  any  violation 
of  the  principles  of  good  narrative  style  ?  What  char- 
acteristics of  the  author's  writing  do  you  think  most 
admirable  ?  Indicate  passages  that  betray  through 
their  vocabulary  George  Eliot's  scientific  knowledge. 
What  do  you  think  of  her  fondness  for  moral  reflec- 


APPENDIX  399 

tions  ?  What  aphorisms  in  the  book  seem  to  you  most 
striking  ?  Does  the  style  impress  you  as  being  self- 
conscious  ?  Point  out  passages  where  the  author,  not 
satisfied  with  direct  delineation  of  action,  tries  to  make 
the  action  doubly  plain  by  the  addition  of  analysis  and 
comment.  To  what  extent  does  irony  appear  as  an 
element  of  style  ?  Do  you  think  the  style  is  always  in 
harmony  with  the  subject-matter  ? 

Summing  up  the  book,  does  it  on  the  whole  give 
weight  to  the  belief,  inculcated  elsewhere  by  George 
Eliot,  that  "  character  is  fate  "  ?  That  ordinary  causes 
are  more  significant,  in  the  conduct  of  life,  than  extra- 
ordinary causes  ?  How  would  you  express,  in  the  few- 
est possible  words,  what  you  conceive  to  be  the  ''moral " 
of  the  story  ? 


INDEX 


Accident,  146. 

ActiOD,  49,  50. 

Advantages  of  the  novel,  66-68. 

Advantages  of  the  stage,  68-70. 

^Esthetic  criticism,  26,  26. 

Aldrich,  T.  B.,  316,  339. 

Alexander,  31. 

Allen,  James  Lane,  347;  Choir 
Invisible,  166-170, 175. 

American  fiction,  present  ten- 
dencies, 336-360 ;  chief  figures, 
338,  339;  marked  characteris- 
tics, 341-345 ;  representative 
novel,  the,  345-348;  interna- 
tional influences  in,  348-350; 
provincialism  in,  350 ;  demo- 
cracy in,  351-365 ;  future  types 
Of,  355-360. 

Analysis  of  style,  290-293. 

Andersen,  Hans  Christian,  215. 

Animalism,  251-253. 

Apollo  Belvedere,  261. 

Appetite  for  fiction,  the,  2-4. 

Aristotle,  16, 19. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  46. 

Art  and  morals,  192-213. 

Arthurian  romances,  31. 

Artist,  the,  74,  75. 

"Artistic"  language,  36. 

"  Artistic  temperament,"  the, 
201. 

"Atmosphere,"  155. 

Austen,  Jane,  191, 216 ;  Pride  and 
Prejudice,  210. 

Baldassare,  36. 

Balfour,  Graham,  154. 

Balzac,  5,  39,  82,  91, 160,  179, 182, 
237,  265,  346. 

Barrie,  J.  W.,  Sentimental  Tom- 
my, 297. 

Beers,  H.  A.,  262. 

Beethoven,  261. 

Berlioz,  265. 

Besant,  Sir  Walter,  296-298. 

BjSrnson,  349. 

Black,  William,  166. 

Blackmore,  K.  D.,  Lorna  Doone, 
39, 166. 


Bolingbroke,  192. 

Bonheur,  Rosa,  219. 

Bosanquet,  Bernard,  90, 91, 208. 

Bourget,  Paul,  257, 294. 

Bronte,  Charlotte,  29, 64, 97. 

Brown,  Brockden,  342. 

Brownell,  W.  C.,  217. 

Browning,  Robert,  86,  188;  An- 
drea del  Sarto,  199 ;  Fra  Lippo 
Lippi,  222. 

Brunetiere,  F.,  78,  90, 100, 103, 170. 
177,  331. 

Bunyan,  John,  119. 

Burns,  Robert,  202,  350. 

Burroughs,  John,  353. 

Byron,  Lord,  45,  262,  265,  352; 
Childe  Harold,  222 ;  Don  Juan, 
222. 

Cable,  G.  W.,  316,  339,  347. 
Calderon,  264. 

Canterbury  Tales,  The,  112. 
Caricatures,  119, 120. 
Carlyle,  33, 162, 350. 
Catastrophe,  66, 59, 140, 141. 
Cellini,  Benvenuto,  199, 200. 
Century  Dictionary,  The,  268. 
Cervantes,  189,  237. 
Character,  17, 18, 94-128, 307. 
Character-contrast,  124. 
Character-grouping,  125. 
Characteristic  traits,  111-124. 
Character-novel,  the,  141. 
Charlemagne,  31. 
Chateaubriand,  160. 
Chaucer,  303;    The  Canterbury 

Tales,  112 ;  The  Knight's  Tale, 

135. 

Chopin,  261, 265. 
Christian,  The,  71. 
Christianity,  243-246. 
Cid,  the,  31. 
Clark,  J.  Scott,  290-292. 
Classic  qualities,  23, 24, 260,  36L 
Class  traits,  112, 113. 
"  Climax,"  the,  55-59, 139, 140. 
Coleridge,  262,  274. 
Collins,  Wilkie,  333. 
Cologne  Cathedral,  261. 


402 


INDEX 


Comment,  the  author's,  103. 

Commonplace,  the,  223. 

Complex  characters,  106. 

Complexity  of  plot,  137. 

"  Complication,"  the,  69. 

Contemporary  fiction,  14, 15. 

Content  in  fiction,  19-21. 

Conventionalism,  218. 

Cooper,  James  Fenimore,  64, 
158,  169,  338, 339,  342,  351. 

Crabhe,  George,  Tales  of  the 
Hall,  222. 

Crane,  Stephen,  315. 

Crawford,  F.  Marion,  339  ;  Zo- 
roaster, 273 ;  Mr.  Isaacs,  274  ; 
Casa  Braccio,  275. 

Criticism  of  fiction,  the,  7, 14, 15, 
25-27. 

"  Criticism  of  life,  a,"  46, 81. 

Cross,  J.  W.,  41, 154. 

Cross,  Wilbur  L.,  13. 

D'Annunzio,  349. 

Dante,  46,  346. 

"  Dares  the  Phrygian,"  3L 

Darwin,  33,  238. 

Daudet,  43,  211,  238,  297,  303,  349. 

Davis,  R.  H.,  122, 159. 

Decay  of  Art,  The,  87. 

Defoe,    Daniel,    184,    189,   212; 

Captain    Singleton,    161,  162; 

RoMnson    Crusoe,    232 ;   Rox- 

ana,  232. 
Delacroix,  265. 
Delaroche,  265. 
Doming,  P.,  314. 
Democracy,  243,  351-365. 
De'noument,  the,  59,  61-64. 
"  Detachment,"  240. 
Deterioration  of  character,  109, 

110. 

Developing  characters,  106-108. 

De  Vigny,  Alfred,  238, 265. 

Dickens,  Charles,  42,  52,  108, 120, 
130,  137,  166,  182,  183,  186,  192, 
211,  236,  291,  318,  321,  340,354; 
David  Copperfleld.  37  112,  201 ; 
Tale  of  Two  Cities,  55, 151 ;  Our 
Mutual  Friend,  138;  Oliver 
Twist,  145 ;  Nicholas  Nickleby, 
207. 

"  Dictys  the  Cretan,"  31. 

Didacticism,  208,  209. 

Disraeli,  B.f  Lothair,  "ill. 

"  Divine  average,  the,"  354. 

Dowden,  Edward,  73. 

Doyle,  Conan,  15,  98. 

Drama,  the,  16;  as  compared 
with  the  novel.  48-72. 

Dramatization  of  novels,  70-72. 


Dumas  (the  elder),  131, 182,  340  j 

Three  Musketeers,  63. 
Dumas  (the  younger),  318. 

Ehers,  George,  157. 

"  Effectivism,"  216. 

Eliot,  George,  25, 41, 44, 45, 67,  76, 
86,  103,  154,  166,  181,  182,  192, 
198,  243,  293,  308,  327,  330,  354  ; 
Adam  Bede,  11,  65,  106,  109, 
110,  181,  209,  236,  257,  329 ;  Ro- 
mola,  36,  62,  98,  110,  112,  151; 
Middlemarch,  55,  58,  109,  112, 
138,  281,  324,  326,  356;  Daniel 
Deronda,  98,  106,  109, 140,  328 ; 
Silas  Marner,  133,  150;  The 
Mill  on  the  Floss,  140,  236; 
Scenes  from  Clerical  Life, 
295. 

Elizabethan  theatre,  68. 

Emotion,  the  novelist's,  182-184. 

Enjoyment  of  fiction,  the,  9-11. 

Environment,  155. 

Evening  Post,  The  New  York, 
252. 

"  Every-day  life,"  the,  225. 

"  Exciting  moment,"  the,  53. 

Experience,  the  novelist's,  180, 
181. 

Experimental  Novel,  The,  76-80. 

Exposition,  the,  51, 52. 

Fact,  21. 

"  Falling"  action,  the, 56-64, 140. 

Fashionable  types,  121, 122. 

Fate,  147-149. 

Fiction-writer,  the  (general  dis- 
cussion), 177-216 

Fielding,  41,  83,  96.  97,  162,  203, 
211,  233-235,  327,  351;  Amelia, 
106.  235,  257 ;  Tom  Jones,  212. 

"  Final  suspense,"  the,  60. 

Fine  art,  208. 

FitzGerald,  Edward,  258, 277. 

Flaubert,  Gustavo,  39,  99,  192, 
250, 284,  349 ;  Madame  Bovary, 
183,  228,  237, 238,  246. 

Form  In  fiction,  20, 21, 23-25 ;  gen. 
eral  discussion,  284-299. 

Forms  of  fiction,  19. 

Fra  Angelico,  197. 

Fragonard,  221. 

Francke,  Kuno,  264. 

Freytag,  G.,  64, 59, 60. 

"Gag,"  the,  111,120. 
Garland.  Hamlln,  159,  348. 
Gaskell,  Mrs.,  Cranford,Q, 
(Jf'iiius,  202. 
"Gibson  girl,"  the,  121. 


INDEX 


403 


Goethe,  46,  105,  126, 197,  213,  264 ; 

Wilhelm  Meister,  203. 
Gogol,  245. 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  191 ;  Vicar  of 

Wakefield,  265,  266. 
Goncourt  brothers,  250. 
Gosse,  Edmund,  353. 
Gray,  Thomas,  188. 

Hale,  Edward  Everett,  315. 

Hardy,  Thomas,  19,  83,  150, 166, 
173,241,  248  ;  Tess  of  the  VUr- 
bervilles,  55,  71,  109,  148,  149, 
174,  242;  Wessex  Tales,  131, 
289  ;  Return  of  the  Native,  168. 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler,  347. 

Harte,  Bret,  5,  315,  320,  321,  339, 
348. 

Hawthorne,  23,  25,  40,  64,  '91, 
97,  130,  179,  185.  187,  216,  231, 
270,  295,  303-306,  322,  338,  340, 
342,  351 ;  Scarlet  Letter,  1,  62, 
71,  137,  209,  211,  238,  272,  326 ; 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables, 
54,  104,  105,  137-139,  146,  270, 
272  ;  Marble  Faun,  62, 106,  141, 
143,  231,  272;  Wahefteld,  132  ; 
Ethan  Brand,  249. 

Hearn,  Lafcadio,  166. 

Hegel,  259, 260. 

"  Heightening,"  the,  54, 55. 

Hertford,  Lord,  33,  34. 

Hewlett,  Maurice,  157. 

Higginson,  T.  W.,  300. 

Historical  setting,  157. 158. 

History  of  the  English  Novel, 
12-14. 

Hoffmann,  327. 

Homer,  346. 

Howells,  W.  D.,  40,  46,  159,  225, 
272,  332,  339;  Modern  In- 
stance, 110 ;  Silas  Lapham,  110, 

332 
Hugo,  Victor,   47,  154,  163,   186, 

238,  265,  351,  356 ;  Lea  Misero- 

bles,  266. 

"Human  documents,  the," 89. 
Hutton,  Richard  H.,  245. 
Huxley,  33. 

Ibsen,  75, 318. 

Idealism,  218,  219,  280-283. 

Iliad,  30,  31. 

Imagination,  98,  99,  155, 184-187, 

205,  220,  359,  360. 

Immorality,  the  artist's,  198-202. 
"  Impressionism,"  249. 
Incident,  138, 139. 
"  Inciting  moment,"  the,  63. 
Individual  in  fiction,  the,  115-124. 


Instinct  for  beauty,  215. 
"  Invention,"  98. 

James,  Henry,  10,  86,  89,  92,  94, 
177,  193,  223,  231,  284,  294,  316, 
326,  339. 

James,  William,  86. 

Jewett,  Sarah  Orne,  166,  303, 315. 
348. 

John  Halifax,  Gentleman,  110. 

Johnson,  C.  F.,  138. 

Johnson,  Samuel,  115. 

Johnston,  Mary,  281, 347. 

Jowett,  Benjamin,  1. 

Kean,  Edmund,  70. 

Keats,  John,  262;  Endymion, 
222. 

King,  Captain  Charles,  159. 

King,  Grace,  347. 

Kingsley,  Charles,  85, 157 ;  Here- 
ward,  62. 

Kipling,  Rudyard,  5,  19,  97,  130, 
166,  289,  303,  315,  317,  329,  354 ; 
His  Private  Honour,  133-135. 

Labor,  the  artist's,  195-198. 
Lamb,  Charles,  189. 
Landscape,  160-174. 
Lanier,  Sidney,  28, 181, 235. 
Leibnitz,  192. 
Lessing,  17, 19, 264. 
Limitations,  an  author's,  188, 189. 
Limitations  of  realism,  247,  248. 
Lincoln,  Abraham,  115,  117, 118, 

350. 

Liszt,  131, 224. 

Literature  of  evasion,  the,  277. 
Little  Minister,  The,  71. 
Local  color,  158, 159. 
London,  .Jack,  348. 
Longfellow,  40. 
"  Loosened  speech,"  43. 
Loti,  Pierre,  154,  160, 257. 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  335. 
Lytton,  Bulwer,  157,  325. 

Mabie,  Hamilton  W.,  349. 

Marlowe,  Christopher,  220 ;  His- 
tory of  Dr.  Faustus,  220. 

Masson,  David,  177, 181, 192, 328. 

Materialistic  tendencies,  90. 

Materials,  the  novelist's,  94,  95. 

Materials  of  fiction  and  poetry, 
31, 37-M). 

Matthews,  Brander,  187,  301-303. 

Maupassant,  Guy  de,  99, 101, 160. 
239,  266,  319,  327;  Pierre  et 
Jean,  6. 

Mediaeval  romancer,  82. 


404 


INDEX 


Melema,  Tito,  36. 

Meredith,  George,  93,  108;  Or- 
deal of  Richard  Veverel,  37, 
110, 173  ;  Beauchamp's  Career, 
37. 

Methods  of  fiction  study,  12-21. 

Michelangelo,  220. 

Milieu,  155. 

Millet,  J.  F.,  168. 

Milton,  101. 

Minto,  William,  290,  291. 

Moliere,  43,  346. 

Moral  abstractions,  119. 

Moral  purpose  in  fiction,  207- 
213. 

Morals  and  art,  193-213. 

Moral  sympathy,  101. 

Moral  unity  of  character,  127. 

Motives  for  reading  fiction,  4-7. 

Murfree,  Mary  N.,  347. 

"  Muscular  Christianity,"  85. 

Music,  22,  38. 

Mtisketeers,  The  Three,  63. 

Musset,  Alfred  de,  265. 

Mystery  in  plot,  143. 

National  traits,  114. 
Naturalistic  spirit,  the,  88. 
Nature,  213. 
"  Neo-romautic  movement,"  the, 

278. 

Nettleship,  Henry,  24. 
Norris,  Frank,  155. 
Novalis,  264. 

Observation  of  character,  96, 97. 
Ouida,  6, 166. 

Paderewski,  198. 

Page,  Thomas  Nelson,  347,  348. 

Paradise  Lost,  101. 

Parthenon,  261. 

Pasteur,  243. 

Pater,  Walter,  267,  268 ;  Imagi- 
nary Portraits,  50, 110. 

Penelope,  34. 

Personal  tastes  in  fiction,  7, 27. 

Personality,  18,  20, 34. 

Phelps,  W.  L.,  262. 

Philosophy,  the  novelist's,  191- 
193. 

Photography,  83,  84,  88,  223, 227, 
251. 

Physiology,  85. 

Picaresque  romance,  the,  57, 107. 

Pilgrim's  Progress,  The,  91. 

Play  writing,  64-66. 

Plot,  in  drama,  17, 18 ;  in  fiction, 
129-163,  307. 

Plot-novel,  the,  143. 


Plot-ridden  characters,  126, 151. 
Poe,  37,  182,  270,  303-306,  310,  312, 

313,  321,  322,  327,  332,  338,  339. 
Poetic  justice,  149. 
Poetry,  16,  22,  28-47;  lyric,  28- 

30 ;  narrative,  30,  31. 
Pope,  192. 

Portrayal  of  character,  102-105. 
Prime,  W.  C.,  258. 
Prisoner  of  Zenda,  The,  71. 
Problems  involved  in  studying 

fiction,  1,  2. 

Professional  traits,  112. 
"  Prose  poetry,"  36, 37, 42-44. 
Psychology,  86,  87, 91,  92. 
Public,  the  novelist's,  189-191. 

Quiller  Couch,  A.  T.,  315. 

Racine,  44. 

Radcliffe,  Mrs.  Anne,  Mysteries 

of  Udolpho,  144,  163-165. 
Raleigh,   Professor   Walter,  13, 

81,  204. 
Raphael,  219. 
Reade,  Charles,  297,  327. 
Realism,  217-257;    defined,  229; 

English,  231-236;  French,  237- 

239,   254;   American,  239,  240, 

255 ;  future  of,  265 ;  dangers  of, 

248-254. 
Realities,  184. 
Regnault,  Henri,  219. 
Remington,  Frederic,  84. 
"  Resolution,"  the,  59, 61-64. 
Retribution,  145, 146. 
Revival  of  Art,  The,  87. 
Rhetoric,  286. 

Richard  the  Lion-Heart,  145. 
Richardson,  Charles  F.,  341, 342. 
Richardson,  Samuel,  97 ;  Clarissa, 

Harlowe,    212;     Pamela,  233, 

295. 

Richelieu,  70. 

"  Rising  action,"  the,  56, 140. 
Rodin,  261. 

Roles  in  fiction,  113, 114. 
Romances,  30,  31. 
Romahtic  art,  121. 
Romantic  atmosphere,  the,  270- 

276. 
Romanticism,  240 ;  general  di! 

cussion,  258-283 ;  English,  262 

263 ;  German,  263, 264 ;  French, 

264-266  ;  definitions  of,  266-268. 
Romantic  mood,  the,  269, 270. 
Romantic  revival,  255,  278. 
"  Romantic  "  qualities.  260,261. 
Rossettl,  D.  G.,  86  ;  Sister  Helen, 

222. 


INDEX 


406 


Rousseau,  J.  J.,  160, 236, 262. 
Royce,  Josiab,  91. 
Ruskiu,  John,  195, 196. 
Russell,  Clark,  297. 

Sainte-Beuve,  46. 

Sand,  George,  29,  160,  211,  265, 
318. 

Schiller,  264. 

Schlegel  brothers,  the,  264. 

"  School  of  Terror,"  the,  186. 

Science  and  fiction,  17, 73-93,  243, 
251. 

Scientist,  the,  73,  74. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  4, 13,  23,  25,  45, 
52,  93,  97,  99,  108,  111,  121,  131, 
156,  157,  159,  192,  211,  216,  231, 
235,  236,  262,  327,  340,  350; 
Ivanhoe,  11,  34,  147,  158; 
Antiquary,  201,  308 ;  Bride  of 
Lammermoor,  211 ;  Quentin 
Durward,  274 ;  Talisman,  274 ; 
Waverley,  295;  Old  Mortal- 
ity, 328. 

Sectional  traits,  114,  115. 

Sentimentalism,  221. 

Seton  -  Thompson,  Ernest,  42, 
117. 

Setting,  the,  17,  18,  66,  152-176, 
307. 

Sewell,  Miss  Anna,  207. 

Sexual  morality,  206. 

Shakespeare,  203,  214,  265,  346; 
Hamlet,  34,  36,  49,  53,  56,  57,  61, 
72,  100;  Macbeth,  53,  55-57, 
59,  60,  70 ;  Julius  Caesar,  53,  56, 
57 ;  Lear,  56 ;  Romeo  and  Ju- 
liet, 59,  70 ;  Richard  III.,  60  ; 
Othello,  61;  Falstaff,  100; 
Horatio,  107,  108 ;  Merchant 
of  Venice,  149;  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,  261. 

Shelley,  245, 262. 

Shorthouse,  James ;  Blanche, 
Lady  Falaise,  170-173. 

Short  story,  the  (general  discus- 
sion), 300-334 ,  character-draw- 
ing in,  308-310, 324  ;  plot  in,  310- 
313;  background  in,  313-316; 
advantages  of,  316-323;  de- 
mands of,  323-325 ;  what  it  fails 
to  demand,  325-329. 

Sienkiewicz,  Pan  Michael,  55 ; 
Fire  and  Sword,  281. 

Simple  characters,  105. 

Situation.  138, 139. 

Sophocles,  261. 

Southey,  274. 

Stael,  Mme.  de,  148. 

Stationary  characters,  106-108. 


Stephen,  Leslie,  28. 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  10,15, 

129,  131,  154,  168,  214,  226,  278, 

294,  295,  303,  324,  326  ;  Treasure 

Island,     39,    332,     356;     Kid. 

napped,  54 ;  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 

Hyde,  71,  366 ;  St.  Ives,  142. 
Steyue,  the  Marquis  of,  33,  34. 
Stillman,  W.  J.,  87,  88. 
Stockton,  Frank,  189,   215,  311, 

312,  339;    Rudder  Grange,  5, 

333 

Stoddard,  F.H.,  80. 
Story  of  an  African  Farm,  The, 

180. 
Stowe,  Harriet  Beecher,  339, 348  ; 

Uncle   Tom's    Cabin,    83,   207. 
Struggling  characters,  108, 109. 
"  Stuff  "  of  a  novel,  the,  287. 
Style  in  fiction,  290-293. 
Sub-plots,  149-151. 
Symonds,  J.  A.,  352, 353. 
Sympathetic  personage,  the,  100, 

103. 

Technique,  the  artist's,  198-201. 

Technique  in  fiction,  359. 

Tennyson,  32,  33,  75,  226,  296; 
Palace  of  Art,  211 ;  Gardener's 
Daughter,  222 ;  Rizpah,  222. 

Tennyson,  Charles,  296. 

Thackeray,  2,  23,  25,  32-34,  52, 
67,  103, 130,  137, 166,  211, 277, 295, 
300,  327 ;  Henry  Esmond,  11, 
35,109,  110,  139,  212,  257,  288; 
Pendennis,  53,  54,  209,  328; 
Vanity  Fair,  55,  68,  71,  72, 104, 
106,  138,  329;  The  Newcomes, 
109,  110,  115,  201,  308;  Becky 
Sharp,  115,  120,  311  ;  Pitt 
Crawley,  120. 

Thought,  the  novelist's,  181, 182. 

"  Three-leaved  clover,"  the,  136. 

Tieck,  264. 

Tolstoi,  82,  101,  241,  349;  Anna 
Karenina,  109,  175,  210,  228; 
War  and  Peace,  154,  156;  Re- 
surrection, 210, 281. 

Topography,  39. 

"  Tragic  moment,"  the,  56,  57. 

Training  of  the  novelist,  the,  294- 
299. 

"  Transcript  of  life,"  223, 227. 

Trollope  Anthony,  159,  182,  183, 
325;  Framley  Parsonage,  7; 
Barchester  Towers,  289. 

Truth,  21. 

Turgenieff,  166,  192,  211,  248,  28S^ 
349, 351 ;  Nest  of  Nobles,  175. 

Tyndall,  33. 


406 


INDEX 


Twain,  Mark,  339. 

Type  in  fiction,  the,  115-124. 

Ulysses,  34. 

"  Unpleasant,"  the,  225,  226, 228. 

Unrealities,  185. 

Valdes,  Sister  St.  Sulpice,  253, 

279,  280. 

Van  Loo,  Carlo,  221. 
Venus  of  Melos,  204. 
Verne,  Jules,  4,  76. 
Voltaire,  Candide,  110, 191. 

Wagner,  24 ;  Tannhauser,  205. 

Ward,  Mrs.  Humphry,  86,  207; 
Eleanor,  62 ;  David  Grieve, 
110 ;  Robert  Elsmere,  150. 

Warner,  Charles  Dudley,  169. 


Watteau,  221. 

Webster,  Daniel,  350. 

Wells,  H.  G.,  76. 

Weyman,  Stanley,  157;  Gentle- 
man of  France,  174. 

Wharton,  Edith,  86. 

Whitman,  Walt,  85, 342, 347,  353, 
354. 

Whittier,  J.  G.,  350. 

Wilkius,  Mary,  E.,  248,  314,  348; 
New  England  Nun,  135,  136, 
315. 

Winckelmann,  264. 

Wordsworth,  38,  46,  169,  262,  350. 

Zangwill,  Israel,  159. 

Zola,   170,175,  176,197,  238;  The 

Experimental  Novel,  76-80, 90 ; 

Lourdes,  89. 


J&SPUTI 


116944 


